William Wordsworth (1770–1850)

I LOOK for ghosts; but none will force

Their way to me: ’tis falsely said

That there was ever intercourse

Between the living and the dead;

For, surely, then I should have sight

Of him I wait for day and night,

With love and longings infinite.

My apprehensions come in crowds;

I dread the rustling of the grass;

The very shadows of the clouds

Have power to shake me as they pass:

I question things and do not find

One that will answer to my mind;

And all the world appears unkind.

Beyond participation lie

My troubles, and beyond relief:

If any chance to heave a sigh,

They pity me, and not my grief.

Then come to me, my Son, or send

Some tidings that my woes may end;

I have no other earthly friend!