Earth has not anything to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touiching in its majesty:
This City now doth like a garment wear
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky;
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Never did sun more beautiifully steep
In his first splendour valley, rock, or hill;
Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
The river glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still.

William Wordsworth (1770-1850) Poet Laureate from 1843.

O/S Co-ords:3047.7965
Source(s):

The Oxford Book of English Verse