A flock of sheep that grazed along, The gentlest breeze, its tender song; Upon my heart it leaves a mark, Of each past beauty seldom strong.

The white clouds drifting slow away, The grass that sweeps in boughs and sighs; Each comb of mist that shines this day, Reflects the meaning of our lies.

Yet, as I wander through the green, I notice shadows playing rings; The scenes of life are never seen, Except through what the sunlight brings.

And when the twilight falls on earth, I turn my thoughts to joys of yore, To thoughts beyond my simple worth, Where still, the endless echoes soar.

• William Wordsworth