Then sing, ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song!

Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind;
In the primal sympathy
Which having been must ever be;
In the soothing thoughts that spring
Out of human suffering;
In the faith that looks through death,
In years that bring the philosophic mind.


W. Wordsworth
Ode: Intimations Of Immortality From Recollections Of Early Childhood