to wordsworth.

look how the lark soars upward and is gone,

turning a spirit as he nears the sky!

his voice is heard, but body there is none

to fix the vague excursions of the eye.

so, poets’ songs are with us, tho’ they die

obscured, and hid by death’s oblivious shroud,

and earth inherits the rich melody

like raining music from the morning cloud.

yet, few there be who pipe so sweet and loud

their voices reach us through the lapse of space:

the noisy day is deafen’d by a crowd

of undistinguished birds, a twittering race;

but only lark and nightingale forlorn

fill up the silences of night and morn.