There are poems aplenty. And then there is poetry, sheer and enchanting music to the soul, that which reverberates through time, for it is prophetic, uplifting, and edifying. It bespoke truth when written a hundred years and fifty years past, it bespeaks truth today, and it will ring true a hundred and fifty years hence. Such was the poetry of William Wordsworth:
“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.”