William Wordsworth (1770–1850)

EVEN as a dragon’s eye that feels the stress

Of a bedimming sleep, or as a lamp

Suddenly glaring through sepulchral damp,

So burns yon Taper ’mid a black recess

Of mountains, silent, dreary, motionless;

The Lake below reflects it not; the sky,

Muffled in clouds, affords no company

To mitigate and cheer its loneliness.

Yet, round the body of that joyless Thing

Which sends so far its melancholy light,

Perhaps are seated in domestic ring

A gay society, with faces bright,

Conversing, reading, laughing;—or they sing,

While hearts and voices in the song unite.