XIII - Written in very early youth

  Calm is all nature as a resting wheel.
  The Kine are couch'd upon the dewy grass;
  The Horse alone, seen dimly as I pass,
  Is up, and cropping yet his later meal:
  Dark is the ground; a slumber seems to steal
  O'er vale, and mountain, and the starless sky.
  Now, in this blank of things, a harmony
  Home-felt, and home-created seems to heal
  That grief for which the senses still supply
  Fresh food; for only then, when memory
  Is hush'd, am I at rest. My Friends, restrain
  Those busy cares that would allay my pain:
  Oh! leave me to myself; nor let me feel
  The officious touch that makes me droop again.

• About William Wordsworth