ODE. 759 V. Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting; But trailing clouds of glory do we come Heaven lies about us in our infancy! 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, 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, The homely nurse doth all she can To make her foster-child, her inmate man, VII. Behold the child among his new-born blisses - With light upon him from his father's eyes! A mourning or a funeral And this hath now his heart, Then will he fit his tongue To dialogues of business, love, or strife: On whom those truths do rest The years to bring the inevitable yoke, 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. Oh joy! that in our embers Is something that doth live, The thought of our past years in me doth breed For that which is most worthy to be blest Delight and liberty, the simple creed Of childhood, whether busy or at rest, breast Not for these I raise The song of thanks and praise ; 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, 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, 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 Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavor, 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 Can in a moment travel thither, X. Then sing, ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song! As to the tabor's sound! We in thought will join your throng, Ye that pipe and ye that play, Ye that through your hearts to-day What though the radiance which was once so bright Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower- Which, having been, must ever be; In the faith that looks through death, XL And O 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 To live beneath your more habitual sway. I love the brooks which down their channels fret, The clouds that gather round the setting sun 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 Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. The Light of Stars. THE night is come, but not too soon ; There is no light in earth or heaven, Is it the tender star of love? The star of love and dreams? Oh no! from that blue tent above A hero's armor gleams. And earnest thoughts within me rise, O star of strength! I see thee stand |