What though the radiance which was once so bright
          Be now for ever taken from my sight,
             Though nothing can bring back the hour
          Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
             We will grieve not, rather find
             Strength in what remains behind;
             In the primal sympathy
             Which having been must ever be;
             In the soothing thoughts that spring
             Out of human suffering;
             In the faith that looks through death,
          In years that bring the philosophic mind.

          And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves,
          Forebode not any severing of our loves!
          Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;
          I only have relinquished one delight
          To live beneath your more habitual sway.
          I love the Brooks which down their channels fret,
          Even more than when I tripped lightly as they;
          The innocent brightness of a new-born Day
                      Is lovely yet;
          The Clouds that gather round the setting sun
          Do take a sober colouring from an eye
          That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality;
          Another race hath been, and other palms are won.
          Thanks to the human heart by which we live,
          Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,
          To me the meanest flower that blows can give
          Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
                         --Sweet Billy Wordsworth

:)

Molly

(always gets me choked up...)