DECAY OF PIETY

By William Wordsworth

Oft have I seen, ere Time had ploughed my cheek,

Matrons and Sires — who, punctual to the call

Of their loved Church, on fast or festival

Through the long year the House of Prayer would seek:

By Christmas snows, by visitation bleak

Of Easter winds, unscared, from hut or hall

They came to lowly bench or sculptured stall,

But with one fervour of devotion meek.

I see the places where they once were known,

And ask, surrounded even by kneeling crowds,

Is ancient Piety for ever flown?

Alas! even then they seemed like fleecy clouds

That, struggling through the western sky, have won

Their pensive light from a departed sun!