William Wordsworth (1770–1850)

O THEN what soul was his, when, on the tops

Of the high mountains, he beheld the sun

Rise up, and bathe the world in light! He looked—

Ocean and earth, the solid frame of earth

And ocean’s liquid mass, beneath him lay

In gladness and deep joy. The clouds were touched,

And in their silent faces did he read

Unutterable love. Sound needed none,

Nor any voice of joy; his spirit drank

The spectacle; sensation, soul, and form

All melted into him; they swallowed up

His animal being; in them did he live,

And by them did he live; they were his life.

In such access of mind, in such high hour

Of visitation from the living God,

Thought was not; in enjoyment it expired.

No thanks he breathed, he proffered no request;

Rapt into still communion that transcends

The imperfect offices of prayer and praise,

His mind was a thanksgiving to the power

That made him; it was blessedness and love.