Sweet the crawflower's early bell My young, my artless dearie, O! Come, my lassie, let us stray 'Midst joys that never weary, O! Round the sylvan fairy nooks Unless wi' thee, my dearie, O! WILLIAM WORDSWORTH [1770-1850] 364 ODE ON INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY FROM RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY CHILDHOOD THERE was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, To me did seem Apparell'd in celestial light, The glory and the freshness of a dream. By night or day, The things which I have seen I now can see no more! 1 Larks. 2 Silver willows. * Brakes. • Dodges. Each. The rainbow comes and goes, The moon doth with delight Look round her when the heavens are bare; Waters on a starry night Are beautiful and fair; 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, As to the tabor's sound, To me alone their came a thought of grief: The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep,— Land and sea Give themselves up to jollity, And with the heart of May Thou child of joy Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy Shepherd-boy! Ye blessed creatures, I have heard the call The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee; My head hath its coronal, The fulness of your bliss, I feel-I feel it all. This sweet May morning; And the children are pulling 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! -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: Doth the same tale repeat: Whither is fled the visionary gleam? And cometh from afar; But trailing clouds of glory do we come But he beholds the light, and whence it flows, The youth, who daily farther from the east Is on his way attended; At length the man perceives it die away, Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own; The homely nurse doth all she can Behold the Child among his new-born blisses, See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies, A mourning or a funeral; And this hath now his heart, And unto this he frames his song: To dialogues of business, love, or strife; Ere this be thrown aside, And with new joy and pride The little actor cons another part; Filling from time to time his 'humorous stage Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep On whom those truths do rest C Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife? weight Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life! O joy! that in our embers The thought of our past years in me doth breed For that which is most worthy to be blest, Of childhood, whether busy or at rest, The song of thanks and praise; But for those obstinate questionings Blank misgivings of a creature Moving about in worlds not realized, High instincts, before which our mortal nature 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; 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, 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, Our souls have sight of that immortal sea |