![A Sketch, By: William Wordsworth](https://i0.wp.com/poetrycatalog.com/wp-content/uploads/2023/04/A-Sketch-By-William-Wordsworth.jpg?resize=750%2C420&ssl=1)
The little hedgerow birds,
That peck along the road, regard him not.
He travels on, and in his face, his step,
His gait, is one expression; every limb,
His look and bending figure, all bespeak
A man who does not move with pain, but moves
With thought. He is insensibly subdued
To settled quiet: he is one by whom
All effort seems forgotten; one to whom
Long patience hath such mild composure given
That patience now doth seem a thing of which
He hath no need. He is by nature led
To peace so perfect, that the young behold
With envy what the Old Man hardly feels.