O for the help of Angels to complete
This Temple, Angels governed by a plan
Thus far pursued (how gloriously!) by Man,
Studious that He might not disdain the seat
Who dwells in heaven! But that aspiring heat
Hath failed; and now, ye Powers! whose gorgeous wings
And splendid aspect yon emblazonings
But faintly picture, ’twere an office meet
For you, on these unfinished shafts to try
The midnight virtues of your harmony:
This vast design might tempt you to repeat
Strains that call forth upon empyrean ground
Immortal Fabrics, rising to the sound
Of penetrating harps and voices sweet!
Read all of William Wordsworth's poems · About William Wordsworth