William Wordsworth

Dust as we are, the immortal spirit grows

Like harmony in music; there is a dark

Inscrutable workmanship that reconciles

Discordant elements, makes them cling together

In one society.

How men lived

Even next-door neighbours, as we say, yet still

Strangers, not knowing each the other's name.

Here must thou be, O Man!

Power to thyself; no Helper hast thou here;

Here keepest thou in singleness thy state:

No other can divide with thee this work:

No secondary hand can intervene

To fashion this ability; 'tis thine,

The prime and vital principle is thine

In the recesses of thy nature, far

From any reach of outward fellowship,

Else is not thine at all.

Oh! give us once again the wishing cap

Of Fortunatus, and the invisible coat

Of Jack the Giant-killer, Robin Hood,

And Sabra in the forest with St. George!

The child, whose love is here, at least, doth reap

One precious gain, that he forgets himself.

Many are our joys

In youth, but oh! what happiness to live

When every hour brings palpable access

Of knowledge, when all knowledge is delight,

And sorrow is not there!

And I was taught to feel, perhaps too much,

The self-sufficing power of Solitude.