IN SIGHT OF THE TOWN OF COCKERMOUTH

By William Wordsworth

A point of life between my Parents’ dust,

And yours, my buried Little-ones!am I;

And to those graves looking habitually

In kindred quiet I repose my trust.

Death to the innocent is more than just,

And, to the sinner, mercifully bent;

So may I hope, if truly I repent

And meekly bear the ills which bear I must:

And You, my Offspring! that do still remain,

Yet may outstrip me in the appointed race,

If e'er, through fault of mine, in mutual pain

We breathed together for a moment's space,

The wrong, by love provoked, let love arraign,

And only love keep in your hearts a place.