William Wordsworth (1770–1850)

IT is a beauteous evening, calm and free;

The holy time is quiet as a nun,

Breathless with adoration; the broad sun

Is sinking down in its tranquillity;

The gentleness of heaven broods o’er the sea:

Listen! the mighty Being is awake,

And doth, with his eternal motion, make

A sound like thunder—everlastingly.

Dear child! dear girl! that walkest with me here,

If thou appear’st untouched by solemn thought,

Thy nature is not, therefore, less divine:

Thou liest in Abraham’s bosom all the year;

And worshipp’st at the Temple’s inner shrine,

God being with thee, when we know it not.