In Sight of the Town of Cockermouth

— by William Wordsworth

A point of life between my Parent’s dust, And yours, my buried Little-ones! am I; And to those graves looking habitually In kindred quiet I repose my trust. Death to the innocent is more than just, And, to the sinner, mercifully bent; So may I hope, if truly I repent And meekly bear the ills which bear I must: And You, my Offspring! that do still remain, Yet may outstrip me in the appointed race, If e’er, through fault of mine, in mutual pain We breathed together for a moment’s space, The wrong, by love provoked, let love arraign, And only love keep in your hearts a place.