Is there a solitary wretch who hies



To the tall cliff, with starting pace or slow,



And, measuring, views with wild and hollow eyes



Its distance from the waves that chide below;



Who, as the sea-born gale with frequent sighs



Chills his cold bed upon the mountain turf,



With hoarse, half-uttered lamentation, lies



Murmuring responses to the dashing surf?



In moody sadness, on the giddy brink,



I see him more with envy than with fear;



He has no nice felicities that shrink



From giant horrors; wildly wandering here,



He seems (uncursed with reason) not to know



The depth or the duration of his woe.





