William Wordsworth (1770–1850)

MOST sweet it is with unuplifted eyes

To pace the ground, if path there be or none,

While a fair region round the traveller lies

Which he forbears again to look upon;

Pleased rather with some soft ideal scene,

The work of Fancy, or some happy tone

Of meditation, slipping in between

The beauty coming and the beauty gone.

If Thought and Love desert us, from that day

Let us break off all commerce with the Muse:

With Thought and Love companions of our way,

Whate’er the senses take or may refuse,

The Mind’s internal heaven shall shed her dews

Of inspiration on the humblest lay.