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Home  »  The Book of Sorrow  »  William Wordsworth (1770–1850)

Andrew Macphail, comp. The Book of Sorrow. 1916.

Translated from Chiabrera

William Wordsworth (1770–1850)

WEEP not, belovèd Friends! nor let the air

For me with sighs be troubled. Not from life

Have I been taken; this is genuine life

And this alone—the life which now I live

In peace eternal; where desire and joy

Together move in fellowship without end.—

Francesco Ceni willed that, after death,

His tombstone thus should speak for him. And surely

Small cause there is for that fond wish of ours

Long to continue in this world; a world

That keeps not faith, nor yet can point a hope

To good, whereof itself is destitute.