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
