Glowing with sunset, Grasmere’s waters take
To their still bosom, sky, and rock, and wood;
Nature stands trembling, grieved that she must break
Union with him, who shared her quietude,
The dearest worshiper that near her altar stood.
But thou diest not, O Wordsworth! who hast found,
And called from sleep our holier sympathies,
Strewing with deathless flowers Life’s barren ground,
And lighting up our pathway to the skies—
Translator of great Nature’s mysteries!