William Wordsworth (1770–1850)

NOT Love, not War, nor the tumultuous swell

Of civil conflict, nor the wrecks of change,

Nor Duty struggling with afflictions strange,

Not these alone inspire the tuneful shell;

But where untroubled peace and concord dwell,

There also is the Muse not loath to range,

Watching the twilight smoke of cot or grange

Skyward ascending from a woody dell.

Meek aspirations please her, lone endeavor,

And sage content, and placid melancholy;

She loves to gaze upon a crystal river,

Diaphanous, because it travels slowly.

Soft is the music that would charm forever;

The flower of sweetest smell is shy and lowly.