The little hedgerow birds, <br />That peck along the roads, regard him not. <br />He travels on, and in his face, his step, <br />His gait, is one expression: every limb, <br />His look and bending figure, all bespeak <br />A man who does not move with pain, but moves <br />With thought.--He is insensibly subdued <br />To settled quiet: he is one by whom <br />All effort seems forgotten; one to whom <br />Long patience hath such mild composure given, <br />That patience now doth seem a thing of which <br />He hath no need. He is by nature led <br />To peace so perfect that the young behold <br />With envy, what the Old Man hardly feels.<br /><br />William Wordsworth<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/animal-tranquillity-and-decay/
