William Wordsworth (1770–1850)

FROM low to high doth dissolution climb,

And sink from high to low, along a scale

Of awful notes, whose concord shall not fail:

A musical but melancholy chime

Which they can hear who meddle not with crime,

Nor avarice, nor over-anxious care.

Truth fails not; but her outward forms that bear

The longest date do melt like frosty rime,

That in the morning whitened hill and plain

And is no more; drop like the tower sublime

Of yesterday, which royally did wear

His crown of weeds, but could not even sustain

Some casual shout that broke the silent air,

Or the unimaginable touch of Time.