William Wordsworth (1770–1850)

I AM not one who much or oft delight

To season my fireside with personal talk

Of friends who live within an easy walk,

Or neighbors daily, weekly, in my sight;

And, for my chance acquaintance, ladies bright,

Sons, mothers, maidens withering on the stalk,

These all wear out of me, like forms with chalk

Painted on rich men’s floors, for one feast-night.

Better than such discourse doth silence long,

Long, barren silence, square with my desire;

To sit without emotion, hope, or aim,

In the loved presence of my cottage fire,

And listen to the flapping of the flame,

Or kettle whispering its faint undersong.