Verse > Anthologies > Harvard Classics > English Poetry II: From Collins to Fitzgerald
   English Poetry II: From Collins to Fitzgerald.
The Harvard Classics.  1909–14.
364. Ode on Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood
William Wordsworth (1770–1850)
THERE was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
The earth, and every common sight
            To me did seem
          Apparell’d in celestial light,
The glory and the freshness of a dream.        5
It is not now as it has been of yore;—
          Turn wheresoe’er I may,
            By night or day,
The things which I have seen I now can see no more!
        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 pass’d away a glory from the earth.
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
Ye blesséd 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 fulness 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 look’d 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?
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.
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.
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-learned 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.
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 for ever by the eternal Mind,—
        Mighty Prophet! Seer blest!
        On whom those truths do rest        115
Which we are toiling all our lives to find;
Thou, over whom thy immortality
Broods like the day, a master o’er a slave,
A presence which is not to be put by;
        To whom the grave        120
Is but a lonely bed without the sense or sight
        Of day or the warm light,
A place of thought where we in waiting lie;
Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might
Of heaven-born freedom on thy being’s height,        125
Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke
The years to bring the inevitable yoke,
Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife?
Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight,
And custom lie upon thee with a weight        130
Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life!
        O joy! that in our embers
        Is something that doth live,
        That Nature yet remembers
        What was so fugitive!        135
The thought of our past years in me doth breed
Perpetual benediction: not indeed
For that which is most worthy to be blest,
Delight and liberty, the simple creed
Of childhood, whether busy or at rest,        140
With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast:
        —Not for these I raise
        The song of thanks and praise;
    But for those obstinate questionings
    Of sense and outward things,        145
    Fallings from us, vanishings,
    Blank misgivings of a creature
Moving about in worlds not realized,
High instincts, before which our mortal nature
Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised:        150
    But for those first affections,
    Those shadowy recollections,
        Which, be they what they may,
Are yet the fountain-light of all our day,
Are yet a master-light of all our seeing;        155
    Uphold us—cherish—and have power to make
Our noisy years seem moments in the being
Of the eternal Silence: truths that wake,
            To perish never;
Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour,        160
            Nor Man nor Boy,
Nor all that is at enmity with joy,
Can utterly abolish or destroy!
    Hence, in a season of calm weather
        Though inland far we be,        165
Our souls have sight of that immortal sea
            Which brought us hither;
        Can in a moment travel thither—
And see the children sport upon the shore,
And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.        170
Then sing, ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song!
        And let the young lambs bound
        As to the tabor’s sound!
    We, in thought, will join your throng,
        Ye that pipe and ye that play,        175
        Ye that through your hearts to-day
        Feel the gladness of the May!
What though the radiance which was once so bright
Be now for ever taken from my sight,
    Though nothing can bring back the hour        180
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
        We will grieve not, rather find
        Strength in what remains behind,
        In the primal sympathy
        Which having been must ever be,        185
        In the soothing thoughts that spring
        Out of human suffering,
        In the faith that looks through death,
In years that bring the philosophic mind.
And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves,        190
Forbode not any severing of our loves!
Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;
I only have relinquish’d one delight
To live beneath your more habitual sway;
I love the brooks which down their channels fret        195
Even more than when I tripp’d lightly as they;
The innocent brightness of a new-born day
            Is lovely yet;
The clouds that gather round the setting sun
Do take a sober colouring from an eye        200
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,
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys and fears,
To me the meanest flower that blows can give        205
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.


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