Sonnet LXX

IS there a solitary wretch who hiesTo the tall cliff, with starting pace or slow,And, measuring, views with wild and hollow eyesIts distance from the waves that chide below;Who, as the sea-born gale with frequent sighsChills his cold bed upon the mountain turf,With hoarse, half utter'd lamentation, liesMurmuring 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 shrinkFrom giant horrors; wildly wandering here,He seems (uncursed with reason) not to knowThe depth or the duration of his woe.