And often, glad no more, We wear a face of joy because We have been glad of yore. - William Wordsworth

One impulse from a vernal wood May teach you more of man, Of moral evil and of good, Than all the sages can.

Upon Westminster Bridge

Earth has not anything to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty:
This City now doth, like a garment, wear
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky;
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Never did sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill;
Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
The river glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still!

One moment now may give us more
Than fifty years of reason;
Our minds shall drink at every pore
The spirit of the season.