Our noisy years seem moments in the being Of the eternal Silence.

All that we behold is full of blessings.

But hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity.

The unconquerable pang of despised love.

The world is too much with us; late and soon, getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: Little we see in Nature that is ours.

And mighty poets in their misery dead.

But thou that didst appear so fair To fond imagination, Dost rival in the light of day Her delicate creation.