Calm is all nature as a resting wheel. <br />The kine are couched upon the dewy grass; <br />The horse alone, seen dimly as I pass, <br />Is cropping audibly his later meal: <br />Dark is the ground; a slumber seems to steal <br />O'er vale, and mountain, and the starless sky. <br />Now, in this blank of things, a harmony, <br />Home-felt, and home-created, comes to heal <br />That grief for which the senses still supply <br />Fresh food; for only then, when memory <br />Is hushed, am I at rest. My Friends! restrain <br />Those busy cares that would allay my pain; <br />Oh! leave me to myself, nor let me feel <br />The officious touch that makes me droop again.<br /><br />William Wordsworth<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/calm-is-all-nature-as-a-resting-wheel/
