WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
I love the brooks which down their channels fret, Even more than when I tripp'd lightly as they; The innocent brightness of a new-born Day
Is lovely yet;
The clouds that gather round the setting sun Do take a sober colouring from an eye That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality; Another race hath been, and other palms are won. Thanks to the human heart by which we live, Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears, To me the meanest flower that blows can give Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
��557 Desideria
SURPRISED by joy impatient as the Wind I turned to share the transport O' with whom
But Thee, deep buried in the silent tomb, That spot which no vicissitude can find^ Love, faithful love, recall'd thce to my mind
But how could I forget thee ? Through what power,
Even for the leabt division of an hour, Have I been so beguiled as to be blind To my most grievous loss? That thought's return
Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore, Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn,
Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more, That neither present time, nor years unborn
Could to my sight that heavenly face restore.
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