Wordsworth

Written on a blank leaf of his memoirs.     Dear friends, who read the world aright,     And in its common forms discern     A beauty and a harmony     The many never learn!     Kindred in soul of him who found     In simple flower and leaf and stone     The impulse of the sweetest lays     Our Saxon tongue has known,     Accept this record of a life     As sweet and pure, as calm and good,     As a long day of blandest June     In green field and in wood.     How welcome to our ears, long pained     By strife of sect and party noise,     The brook-like murmur of his song     Of nature's simple joys!     The violet' by its mossy stone,     The primrose by the river's brim,     And chance-sown daffodil, have found     Immortal life through him.     The sunrise on his breezy lake,     The rosy tints his sunset brought,     World-seen, are gladdening all the vales     And mountain-peaks of thought.     Art builds on sand; the works of pride     And human passion change and fall;     But that which shares the life of God     With Him surviveth all.