Earth has not anything to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty:
This City now doth, like a garment, wear
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky;
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Never did sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill;
Ne’er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
The river glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still!
William Wordsworth (1770–1850) was one of the central figures of the English Romantic movement. He believed that poetry should be written in the language of ordinary men and that poetry was “the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings from emotions recollected in tranquility.” He was England’s Poet Laureate from 1843 until his death in 1850.