William Wordsworth


FROM low to high doth dissolution climb,
    And sink from high to low, along a scale
    Of awful notes, whose concord shall not fail;
A musical but melancholy chime,
Which they can hear who meddle not with crime,
    Nor avarice, nor over-anxious care.
    Truth fails not; but her outward forms that bear
The longest date do melt like frosty rime,
That in the morning whiten’d hill and plain
And is no more; drop like the tower sublime
    Of yesterday, which royally did wear
His crown of weeds, but could not even sustain
    Some casual shout that broke the silent air,
Or the unimaginable touch of Time.