A William Wordsworth Poem

Shame on this faithless heart! that could allow
Such transport, though but for a moment's space;
Not while, to aid the spirit of the place
The crescent moon clove with its glittering prow
The clouds, or night-bird sang from shady bough;
But in plain daylight: She, too, at my side,
Who, with her heart's experience satisfied,
Maintains inviolate its slightest vow!
Sweet Fancy! other gifts must I receive;
Proofs of a higher sovereignty I claim;
Take from 'her' brow the withering flowers of eve,
And to that brow life's morning wreath restore;
Let 'her' be comprehended in the frame
Of these illusions, or they please no more.