William Wordsworth (1770–1850)

“YET life,” you say, “is life; we have seen and see,

And with a living pleasure we describe;

And fits of sprightly malice do but bribe

The languid mind into activity.

Sound sense, and love itself, and mirth and glee

Are fostered by the comment and the gibe.”

Even be it so: yet still among your tribe,

Our daily world’s true worldlings, rank not me!

Children are blest, and powerful; their world lies

More justly balanced; partly at their feet,

And part far from them:—sweetest melodies

Are those that are by distance made more sweet;

Whose mind is but the mind of his own eyes,

He is a slave; the meanest we can meet.