Earth hasd not anything to show me more fair: Dull would he be of soul who could pass by A sight so touching in its majesty: This City now doth like a garment wear The beauty of the morning: silent, bare, Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie Open unto the fields and to the sky; ALl bright and glittering in the smokeless air. Never did a sun more beautifully steep In his first splendour valley, rock or hill; Ne’er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! The river glideth at his own sweet will: Dear God! the very houses seem asleep; And all that mighty heart is lying still!
William Wordsworth (1770 - 1850)