I finally read the entire Prelude (1805).
This passage *almost* makes up for the 200 pages of self-indulgence that is Wordsworth writing the blank verse epic of his own life:
"while the Flock
Fled upwards from the terror of his Bark
Through rocks and seams of turf with liquid gold
Irradiate, that deep farewell light by which
The setting sun proclaims the love he bears
To mountain regions."
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