O sylvan Wye! thou wanderer thro' the woods, How often has my spirit turned to thee! - William Wordsworth

Not in entire forgetfulness, And not in utter nakedness, But trailing clouds of glory do we come
From God, who is our home.

When from our better selves we have too long
Been parted by the hurrying world, and droop,
Sick of its business, of its pleasures tired,
How gracious, how benign, is Solitude

Such seem'd this Man, not all alive nor dead, Nor all asleep; in his extreme old age: His body was bent double, feet and head Coming together in their pilgrimage; As if some dire constraint of pain, or rage Of sickness felt by him in times long past, A more than human weight upon his frame had cast.