Уильям Вордсворт (William Wordsworth)

At Bala-sala, Isle of Man

     Supposed to Be Written by a Friend

BROKEN in fortune, but in mind entire
And sound in principle, I seek repose
Where ancient trees this convent-pile enclose,
In ruin beautiful. When vain desire
Intrudes on peace, I pray the Eternal Sire  
To cast a soul-subduing shade on me,
A gray-haired, pensive, thankful Refugee;
A shade,—but with some sparks of heavenly fire
Once to these cells vouchsafed. And when I note
The old Tower’s brow yellowed as with the beams	
Of sunset ever there, albeit streams
Of stormy weather-stains that semblance wrought,
I thank the silent monitor, and say,
“Shine so, my aged brow, at all hours of the day!”

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