And O, 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 relinquished one delight/ To live beneath your more habitual sway./ I love the Brooks which down their channels fret,/ Even more than when I tripped 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./ By W. Wordsworth
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