Nor was this fellowship vouchsafed to me
  With stinted kindness.  In November days,
  When vapours, rolling down the valleys, made
  A lonely scene more lonesome, among woods
  At noon, and ’mid the calm of summer nights,
  When by the margin of the trembling lake
  Beneath the gloomy hills, I homeward went
  In solitude, such intercourse was mine. 
  ’Twas mine among the fields both day and night,
  And by the waters all the summer long,
  And in the frosty season, when the sun
  Was set, and visible for many a mile,
  The cottage windows through the twilight blazed,
  I heeded not the summons....

Like Klopstock, he delighted in sledging

      while the stars
  Eastward were sparkling bright, and in the west
  The orange sky of evening died away.

Far more characteristic of the man is the confession in Tintern Abbey: 

  Nature then
  (The coarser pleasures of my boyish days
  And their glad animal movements all gone by)
  To me was all in all.  I cannot paint
  What then I was.  The sounding cataract
  Haunted me like a passion; the tall rock,
  The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,
  The colours and their forms, were then to me
  An appetite, a feeling and a love
  That had no need of a remoter charm
  By thought supplied, or any interest
  Unborrow’d from the eye.

Beautiful notes, to be struck again more forcibly by the frank pantheism of Byron.

What Scott had been doing for Scotland,[14] and Moore for Ireland, Wordsworth, with still greater fidelity to truth, tried to do for England and her people; in contrast to Byron and Shelley, who forsook home to range more widely, or Southey, whose Thalaba begins with an imposing description of night in the desert: 

      How beautiful is night! 
  A dewy freshness fills the silent air,
  No mist obscures, nor cloud, nor speck, nor stain
  Breaks the serene of heaven;
  In full-orb’d glory yonder Moon divine
  Rolls through the dark blue depths. 
  Beneath her steady ray
  The desert-circle spreads
  Like the round ocean, girdled with the sky. 
  How beautiful is night!

But all that previous English poets had done seemed harmless and innocent in comparison with Byron’s revolutionary poetry.  Prophecy in Rousseau became poetry in Byron.

There was much common ground between these two passionate aspiring spirits, who never attained to Goethe’s serenity.  Both were melancholy, and fled from their fellows; both strove for perfect liberty and unlimited self-assertion; both felt with the wild and uproarious side of Nature, and found idyllic scenes marred by thoughts of mankind.

Byron’s turbulence never subsided; and his love for Nature, passionate and comprehensive as it was, was always ‘sickled o’er’ with misanthropy and pessimism, with the ‘world-pain.’