Rydal Mount

This day without its record may not pass, In which I first have seen the lowly roof That shelters Wordsworth's age. A love intense, Born of the power that charmed me in his song, But grown beyond it into higher moods And deeper gratitude, bound me to seek His rural dwelling. Fitting place I found, Blest with rare beauty, set in deepest calm: Looking upon still waters, whose expanse Might tranquillise all thought; and bordered round By mountains springing from the turfy slopes That bound the margin, to where heath and fern Dapple their soaring sides, and higher still To where the bare crags cleave the vap'rous sky.