But who is he with modest looks And clad in homely russet brown? He murmurs near the running brooks A music sweeter than their own.
He is retired as noontide dew, Or fountain in a noon-day grove; And you must love him, ere to you He will seem worthy of your love.
The outward shows of sky and earth, Of hill and valley, he has viewed; And impulses of deeper birth Have come to him in solitude.
In common things that round us lie Some random truths he can impart— The harvest of a quiet eye That broods and sleeps on his own heart.
Wordsworth
PREFACE
Most of the papers garnered here were written after fourscore years—after the heat and urge of the day—and are the fruit of a long life of observation and meditation.