William Wordsworth (1770–1850)

HOPE smiled when your nativity was cast,

Children of summer! Ye fresh flowers that brave

What summer here escapes not, the fierce wave,

And whole artillery of the western blast.

Battering the temple’s front, its long-drawn nave

Smiting, as if each moment were their last.

But ye, bright flowers, on frieze and architrave

Survive, and once again the pile stands fast,

Calm as the universe, from specular towers

Of heaven contemplated by spirits pure—

Suns and their systems, diverse yet sustained

In symmetry, and fashioned to endure,

Unhurt, the assaults of time with all his hours,

As the supreme Artificer ordained.