William Wordsworth (1770–1850)

THERE’S not a nook within this solemn Pass,

But were an apt confessional for One

Taught by his summer spent, his autumn gone,

That Life is but a tale of morning grass

Wither’d at eve. From scenes of art which chase

That thought away, turn, and with watchful eyes

Feed it ’mid Nature’s old felicities,

Rocks, rivers, and smooth lakes more clear than glass

Untouch’d, unbreathed upon. Thrice happy quest,

If from a golden perch of aspen spray

(October’s workmanship to rival May)

The pensive warbler of the ruddy breast

That moral sweeten by a heaven-taught lay,

Lulling the year, with all its cares, to rest!