William Wordsworth

RANGING the heights of Scawfell or Black-comb,

In his lone course the shepherd oft will pause,

And strive to fathom the mysterious laws

By which the clouds, arrayed in light or gloom,

On Mona settle, and the shapes assume

Of all her peaks and ridges. What he draws

From sense, faith, reason, fancy, of the cause,

He will take with him to the silent tomb.

Or, by his fire, a child upon his knee,

Haply the untaught philosopher may speak

Of the strange sight, nor hide his theory

That satisfies the simple and the meek,

Blest in their pious ignorance, though weak

To cope with sages undevoutly free.