The immeasurable height Of woods decaying, never to be decayed, The stationary blasts of waterfalls.
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Plain living and high thinking are no more. The homely beauty of the good old cause Is gone our peace, our fearful innocence, And pure religion breathing household laws.William Wordsworth
Stepping westward seemed to be; A kind of heavenly destiny.
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'Tis said that some have died for love.
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And now I see with eye serene; The very pulse of the machine; A being breathing thoughtful breath, A traveller between life and death.
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The light that never was, on sea or land The consecration, and the Poet's dream.
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But Thy most dreaded instrument In working out a pure intent, Is man, - arrayed for mutual slaughter, - Yes Carnage is Thy daughter.
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