Great poetry of William Wordsworth
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Poem by William Wordsworth

There is an Eminence, of these our hills

The last that parleys with the setting sun;

We can behold it from our orchard-seat;

And, when at evening we pursue out walk

Along the public way, this Peak, so high

Above us, and so distant in its height,

Is visible; and often seems to send

Its own deep quiet to restore our hearts.

The meteors make of it a favourite haunt:

The star of Jove, so beautiful and large

In the mid heavens, is never half so fair

As when he shines above it. ‘Tis in truth

The loneliest place we have among the clouds.

And She who dwells with me, whom I have loved

With such communion, that no place on earth

Can ever be a solitude to me,

Hath to this lonely Summit given my Name.

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