A few miles above Tintern Abbey What more can this longing sort, to hold, Than to dwell, among things, unpressed, And much beloved, and many more untold? Come, have you lived where time is yet a fold, And rushes into grace, parched and bare, While beauty waits to break upon us all? Let us listen to the buried whisper, too, From the deep mountain where shadows do unfold.

• William Wordsworth