Ere we had reach'd the wish'd-for place, night fell: We were too late at least by one dark hour, - William Wordsworth

She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love:

I thought of Thee, my partner and my guide,
As being past away. — Vain sympathies!
For, backward, Duddon! as I cast my eyes,
I see what was, and is, and will abide;
Still glides the Stream, and shall for ever glide;
The Form remains, the Function never dies;
While we, the brave, the mighty, and the wise,
We Men, who in our morn of youth defied
The elements, must vanish; — be it so!
Enough, if something from our hands have power
To live, and act, and serve the future hour;
And if, as toward the silent tomb we go,
Through love, through hope, and faith's transcendent dower,
We feel that we are greater than we know.

The common growth of Mother Earth Suffices me,—her tears, her mirth, Her humblest mirth and tears.