TO ——, IN HER SEVENTIETH YEAR

By William Wordsworth

Such age how beautiful! O Lady bright,

Whose mortal lineaments seem all refined

By favouring Nature and a saintly Mind

To something purer and more exquisite

Than flesh and blood; whene'er thou meet'st my sight,

When I behold thy blanched unwithered cheek,

Thy temples fringed with locks of gleaming white,

And head that droops because the soul is meek,

Thee with the welcome Snowdrop I compare;

That child of winter, prompting thoughts that climb

From desolation towardthe genial prime;

Or with the Moon conquering earth's misty air,

And filling more and more with crystal light

As pensive Evening deepens into night.