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William Wordsworth - The Fairest, Brightest, Hues Of Ether Fade
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The fairest, brightest, hues of ether fade;
The sweetest notes must terminate and die;
O Friend! thy flute has breathed a harmony
Softly resounded through this rocky glade;
Such strains of rapture as the Genius played
In his still haunt on Bagdad`s summit high;
He who stood visible to Mirza`s eye,
Never before to human sight betrayed.
Lo, in the vale, the mists of evening spread!
The visionary Arches are not there,                         
Nor the green Islands, nor the shining Seas:
Yet sacred is to me this Mountain`s head,
Whence I have risen, uplifted, on the breeze
Of harmony, above all earthly care.
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