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C.D. Warner, et al., comp.  The Library of the World’s Best Literature.
An Anthology in Thirty Volumes.  1917.
 
Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood
By William Wordsworth (1770–1850)
 
I
THERE was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
      The earth, and every common sight,
                  To me did seem
            Appareled in celestial light,
      The glory and the freshness of a dream.        5
      It is not now as it hath been of yore:
              Turn wheresoe’er I may,
                  By night or day,
The things which I have seen I now can see no more.
 
II
            The rainbow comes and goes,
        10
            And lovely is the rose,
            The moon doth with delight
      Look round her when the heavens are bare,
            Waters on a starry night
            Are beautiful and fair;        15
          The sunshine is a glorious birth;
          But yet I know, where’er I go,
That there hath past away a glory from the earth.
 
III
    Now while the birds thus sing a joyous song,
          And while the young lambs bound        20
              As to the tabor’s sound,
  To me alone there came a thought of grief;
  A timely utterance gave that thought relief,
              And I again am strong:
  The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep;—        25
    No more shall grief of mine the season wrong;—
    I hear the echoes through the mountains throng,
  The winds come to me from the fields of sleep,
              And all the earth is gay;
                  Land and sea        30
            Give themselves up to jollity,
            And with the heart of May
          Doth every beast keep holiday;—
                  Thou child of joy,
Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy Shepherd-boy!        35
 
IV
      Ye blessèd creatures, I have heard the call
            Ye to each other make; I see
    The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee;
            My heart is at your festival,
              My head hath its coronal,        40
    The fullness of your bliss, I feel—I feel it all.
            O evil day! if I were sullen
            While earth herself is adorning,
                This sweet May morning,
            And the children are culling        45
                    On every side,
          In a thousand valleys far and wide,
          Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm,
    And the babe leaps up on his mother’s arm;—
          I hear, I hear, with joy I hear!—        50
          But there’s a tree,—of many, one,—
    A single field which I have looked upon:
    Both of them speak of something that is gone;
              The pansy at my feet
              Doth the same tale repeat:        55
          Whither is fled the visionary gleam?
    Where is it now, the glory and the dream?
 
V
    Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:
    The soul that rises with us, our life’s star,
          Hath had elsewhere its setting,        60
              And cometh from afar:
            Not in entire forgetfulness,
            And not in utter nakedness,
    But trailing clouds of glory do we come
            From God, who is our home:        65
        Heaven lies about us in our infancy!
    Shades of the prison-house begin to close
              Upon the growing boy,
But he beholds the light, and whence it flows,
          He sees it in his joy;        70
The youth, who daily farther from the east
      Must travel, still is Nature’s priest,
          And by the vision splendid
          Is on his way attended;
At length the man perceives it die away,        75
And fade into the light of common day.
 
VI
Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own;
Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind,
And even with something of a mother’s mind,
          And no unworthy aim,        80
    The homely nurse doth all she can
To make her foster-child, her inmate man,
    Forget the glories he hath known,
And that imperial palace whence he came.
 
VII
Behold the child among his new-born blisses,
        85
  A six-years’ darling of a pigmy size!
  See, where ’mid work of his own hand he lies,
Fretted by sallies of his mother’s kisses,
  With light upon him from his father’s eyes!
See, at his feet, some little plan or chart,        90
  Some fragment from his dream of human life,
Shaped by himself with newly learnèd art;
        A wedding or a festival,
        A mourning or a funeral;
        And this hath now his heart,        95
      And unto this he frames his song:
        Then will he fit his tongue
To dialogues of business, love, or strife;
        But it will not be long
        Ere this be thrown aside,        100
        And with new joy and pride
      The little actor cons another part;
Filling from time to time his “humorous stage”
With all the persons, down to palsied age,
That life brings with her in her equipage;        105
        As if his whole vocation
        Were endless imitation.
 
VIII
Thou whose exterior semblance doth belie
          Thy soul’s immensity;
Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep        110
  Thy heritage; thou eye among the blind,
That, deaf and silent, read’st the eternal deep,
  Haunted forever by the eternal mind,—
        Mighty prophet! seer blest!
        On whom those truths do rest,        115
Which we are toiling all our lives to find,
  In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave;
Thou, over whom thy immortality
  Broods like the day, a master o’er a slave,
A presence which is not to be put by;        120
Thou little child, yet glorious in the might
Of heaven-born freedom on thy being’s height,—
Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke
The years to bring the inevitable yoke,
Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife?        125
  Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight,
  And custom lie upon thee with a weight
Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life!
 
IX
          O joy! that in our embers
            Is something that doth live,        130
          That nature yet remembers
            What was so fugitive!
The thought of our past years in me doth breed
Perpetual benediction: not indeed
  For that which is most worthy to be blest,—        135
Delight and liberty, the simple creed
  Of childhood, whether busy or at rest,
  With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast;—
        Not for these I raise
        The song of thanks and praise:        140
      But for those obstinate questionings
      Of sense and outward things,
      Fallings from us, vanishings;
      Blank misgivings of a creature
  Moving about in worlds not realized,        145
High instincts before which our mortal nature
  Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised:
        But for those first affections,
        Those shadowy recollections,
      Which, be they what they may,        150
  Are yet the fountain light of all our day,
    Are yet a master light of all our seeing.—
  Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make
  Our noisy years seem moments in the being
  Of the eternal silence: truths that wake,        155
            To perish never;
  Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavor,
            Nor man nor boy,
  Nor all that is at enmity with joy,
  Can utterly abolish or destroy!        160
      Hence in a season of calm weather
          Though inland far we be,
  Our souls have sight of that immortal sea
          Which brought us hither;
      Can in a moment travel thither,        165
  And see the children sport upon the shore,
And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.
 
X
  Then sing, ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song!
          And let the young lambs bound
          As to the tabor’s sound!        170
      We in thought will join your throng,
      Ye that pipe and ye that play,
      Ye that through your hearts to-day
      Feel the gladness of the May!
  What though the radiance which was once so bright        175
  Be now for ever taken from my sight,
    Though nothing can bring back the hour
  Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower;
      We will grieve not, rather find
      Strength in what remains behind:        180
      In the primal sympathy
      Which having been must ever be;
      In the soothing thoughts that spring
      Out of human suffering;
      In the faith that looks through death,        185
  In years that bring the philosophic mind.
 
XI
And oh, ye fountains, meadows, hills, and groves,
Forebode not any severing of our loves!
Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;
I only have relinquished one delight        190
To live beneath your more habitual sway.
  I love the brooks which down their channels fret,
Even more than when I tripped lightly as they;
The innocent brightness of a new-born day
              Is lovely yet;        195
The clouds that gather round the setting sun
  Do take a sober coloring from an eye
  That hath kept watch o’er man’s mortality:
Another race hath been, and other palms are won.
Thanks to the human heart by which we live,        200
  Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,
To me the meanest flower that blows can give
  Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
 
 
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