Plain is the stone that made the Poet’s rest:
Not marble worked beneath Italian skies—
A grey slate head-stone tells where Wordsworth lies,
Cleft from the native hills he loved the best.
No heavier thing upon his gentle breast
Than turf starred o’er in Spring with daisy eyes,
Nor richer music makes him lullabies
Than Rotha fresh from yonder mountain crest.
His name, his date, the years he lived to sing,
Are deep incised and eloquently terse;
But Fancy hears the graver’s hammer ring,
And sees, ’mid lines of much remembered verse,
These words in gold beneath his title wrought—
“Singer of Humble Themes and Noble Thoughts.”
(Sonnets at the English Lakes, p. 62)