William Wordsworth

(...)
But from this awful burthen I full soon
Take refuge and beguile (leurre) myself with trust
That mellower years will bring a riper mind
And clearer insight. Thus my days are past
In contradiction ; with no skill to part (partager)
Vague longing (nostalgies), haply bref by want of power (le manque de moyens peut-être m'inculquant),
From paramount impulse not to be withstood
A timorous capacity from prudence,
From circumspection, infinite delay.
Humility and modest awe themselves
Betray me, serving often for a cloak
To a more subtle selfishness ; that now
Locks every function up in blank reserve,
Now dupes me, trusting to an anxious eye
That with intrusive restlessness beats off
Simplicity and self-presented truth.