From Ode To Immortality - Wordsworth

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 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. 

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.