William Wordsworth

“ Are yet the fountain light of all our day,
Are yet a master light of all our seeing;
⁠Uphold us, cherish us, and make
Our noisy years seem moments in the being
Of the eternal Silence: truths that wake,
⁠To perish never;
Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour,
⁠Nor Man nor Boy,
Nor all that is at enmity with joy,
Can utterly abolish or destroy! ”

“ Thou best Philosopher, who yet dost keep
Thy heritage, thou Eye among the blind,
That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep,
Haunted for ever by the eternal mind,—
⁠Mighty Prophet! Seer blest! ”

“ And oh ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves,
Forebode not any severing of our loves!
Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;
I only have relinquish'd one delight
To live beneath your more habitual sway.
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. ”