William Wordsworth

Spade! with which Wilkinson hath tilled his lands, And shaped these pleasant walks by Emont's side, Thou art a tool of honor in my hands, I press thee, through a yielding soil, with pride.

Spires whose "silent finger points to heaven."

But shapes that come not at an earthly call Will not depart when mortal voices bid.

And the most difficult of tasks to keep Heights which the soul is competent to gain.

And when the stream Which overflowed the soul was passed away, A consciousness remained that it had left Deposited upon the silent shore Of memory images and precious thoughts That shall not die, and cannot be destroyed.

To the solid ground Of Nature trusts the mind that builds for aye.

As if the man had fixed his face, In many a solitary place, Against the wind and open sky!

That inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude.

A famous man is Robin Hood, The English ballad-singer's joy.

My eyes are dim with childish tears, My heart is idly stirred, For the same sound is in my ears Which in those days I heard.