At that moment I did indeed feel like Wordsworth, but not the triumphant, older Wordsworth upon returning to experience the magnificent Alpine Sublime. No, rather, the identification was more akin to the younger, dismayed Wordsworth when he first traveled to the famous range in search of that feeling of infinite longing mingled with wonder, fear, and awe that so captivated the Romantics, only to find out he had already passed through the mountains and missed their glory entirely. Poor Wordsworth and me.
