———————

What though the radiance,
That was once so bright,

Be now forever taken from my sight,
Though nothing can bring back the hour of splendor in the grass,
Of glory in the flower,

We will grieve not,
Rather, find strength in what remains behind.

In the primal sympathy which having been must ever be.
In the soothing thought that spring out of human suffering.

In the faith that looks through death,
Thanks to the human heart by which we live,
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys and its fears,

To me, the meanest flower that blows,
Can give thoughts that do often lie,
Too deep for tears.

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Glory of the flower- William Wordsworth.