Our hearts, which seek in vain the staff-supported sage!
Wordsworth is dead! and yet not wholly sad
The feelings which our sorrowing bosoms thrill;
Death was his gain, for here his spirit had
Not space enough to wander at its will,
Filling its fruitful treasury until
Men might be blest with its rich overflow;
As when the sinking sun behind the hill,
Growing more broad as it doth westward go,
Scatters its golden dust upon the world below.