To me alone there came a thought of grief: And I again am strong: The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep; Land and sea 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! IV Ye blessed Creatures, I have heard the call Ye to each other make; I see The heavens laugh with you in My heart is at your festival, My head hath its coronal, your jubilee; The fulness of your bliss, I feel, I feel it all. While the earth herself is adorning, This sweet May-morning, And the Children are culling 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: But there's a Tree, of many, one, A single Field which I have looked upon, The Pansy at my feet Doth the same tale repeat: Whither is fled the visionary gleam? V Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting: Hath had elsewhere its setting, And cometh from afar : Not in entire forgetfulness, And not in utter nakedness, But trailing clouds of glory do we come Heaven lies about us in our infancy ! Shades of the prison-house begin to close 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; The homely Nurse doth all she can To make her Foster-child, her Inmate Man, And that imperial palace whence he came. VII 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: Then will he fit his tongue To dialogues of business, love, or strife; But it will not be long 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' With all the Persons, down to palsied Age, That Life brings with her in her equipage; Were endless imitation. VIII Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie Thou best Philosopher, who yet dost keep That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep, Mighty Prophet! Seer blest! On whom those truths do rest, ΙΙΟ 115 Which we are toiling all our lives to find, Broods like the Day, a Master o'er a Slave, Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height, Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife? Full soon thy Soul shall have her earthly freight, O joy! that in our embers Is something that doth live, IX 120 125 130 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; But for those obstinate questionings Of sense and outward things, Fallings from us, vanishings; Black 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, 140 145 Those shadowy recollections, 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 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, And see the Children sport upon the shore, 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, 150 155 160 165 170 Ye that through your hearts to-day Feel the gladness of the May! What though the radiance which was once so bright 175 Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower; Strength in what remains behind; 180 |