XI - From the Same

  No mortal object did these eyes behold
  When first they met the placid light of thine,
  And my Soul felt her destiny divine,
  And hope of endless peace in me grew bold:
  Heav'n-born, the Soul a heav'n-ward course must hold;
  Beyond the visible world She soars to seek,
  For what delights the sense is false and weak,
  Ideal Form, the universal mould.
  The wise man, I affirm, can find no rest
  In that which perishes: nor will he lend
  His heart to aught which doth on time depend.
  'Tis sense, unbridled will, and not true love,
  Which kills the soul: Love betters what is best,
  Even here below, but more in heaven above.

• About William Wordsworth