Earth has not anything to show more fair：

Dull would he be of soul who could pass by

A sight so touching¹ in its majesty²：

This City now doth like a garment wear

The beauty of the morning： silent， bare，

Ships， towers， domes³， theatres， and temples lie

Open unto the fields， and to the sky，

All bright and glittering⁴ in the smokeless air.

Never did 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 mighty⁵ heart is lying still！

William Wordsworth