Morning has broken………………………

And i have felt A presence that disturbs me with the joy Of elevated thoughts;a sense sublime of something far more deeply interfused, whos dwelling is the light of setting suns, And the round ocean and the living air, And the blue sky, And in the mind of man; A motion and a spirit, that impels.

Anyone recognise this?

William Wordsworth's reputation seemed nearly transcendentally secure in the early decades of the twentieth century. The fit audience but few that, following Milton, he’d tried to cultivate during his own lifetime had built up over the years since his death to the point that by the turn of the century there was quite a mob, an enthusiastic host, wandering about lonely as clouds, musing upon the daffodils of life.

War of the Worlds or The Time Machine?