There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, The earth, and every common sight, To me did seem Apparelled in celestial light,

The glory and the freshness of a dream. It is not now as it hath been of yore; Turn wheresoe’er I may, By night or day, The things which I have seen I now can see no more.

The rainbow comes and goes, And lovely is the rose; The moon doth with delight, Look round her when the heavens are bare;

Waters on a starry night, Are beautiful from everywhere; I see them now with a solemn stare.

The streaks of morning light Are not the ones that seem to speak, Yet, here and there composed, They fill this heart with a sweet, savory ache.

• William Wordsworth