Unthought of—this may surely claim a sigh.
Yet, blessèd Art, we yield not to dejection:
Thou against Time so feelingly dost strive; 10
Where’er, preserved in this most true reflection,
An image of her soul is kept alive,
Some lingering fragrance of the pure affection,
Whose flower with us will vanish, must survive.
William Wordsworth.
Rydal Mount, New Year’s Day, 1840.
[410] See the note to the next sonnet.—Ed.