When his veering gait And every motion of his starry train Seem governed by a strain Of music, audible to him alone.
William WordsworthUp! up! my friend, and quit your books, Or surely you 'll grow double! Up! up! my friend, and clear your looks! Why all this toil and trouble?
William WordsworthThe clouds that gather round the setting sun, Do take a sober colouring from an eye, That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality.
William Wordsworth