William Wordsworth (1770–1850)

METHOUGHT I saw the footsteps of a throne

Which mists and vapors from mine eyes did shroud,—

Nor view of who might sit thereon allowed;

But all the steps and ground about were strown

With sights the ruefullest that flesh and bone

Ever put on; a miserable crowd,

Sick, hale, old, young, who cried before that cloud,

“Thou art our King, O Death! to thee we groan.”

Those steps I clomb; the mists before me gave

Smooth way; and I beheld the face of one

Sleeping alone within a mossy cave,

With her face up to heaven; that seemed to have

Pleasing remembrance of a thought foregone;

A lovely Beauty in a summer grave!