William Wordsworth (1770–1850)

THEY dreamt not of a perishable home

Who thus could build. Be mine, in hours of fear

Or grovelling thought, to seek a refuge here;

Or through the aisles of Westminster to roam:

Where bubbles burst, and folly’s dancing foam

Melts, if it cross the threshold; where the wreath

Of awe-struck wisdom droops: or let my path

Lead to that younger Pile, whose sky-like dome

Hath typified by reach of daring art

Infinity’s embrace; whose guardian crest,

The silent Cross, among the stars shall spread

As now, when She hath also seen her breast

Filled with mementos, satiate with its part

Of grateful England’s overflowing Dead.