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Page 287

BOOK FOURTH
287 ODE ON INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY FROM RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY CHILDHOOD

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.
It is not now as it hath been of yore;
Turn wheresoe'er I may,
By night or day,
Ths things which I have seen I now can see no more.

The rainbow comes and goes,
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;
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
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,
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
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!

Ye blessed 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,
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
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:
The pansy at my feet
Doth the same tale repeat:
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,
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:
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;
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,
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,
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,
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,
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,

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;
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
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
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;
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?
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!

O joy! that in our embers
Is something that doth live,
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,
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,
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
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 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,
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.

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,
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
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;
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,
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,
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
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.
W. WORDSWORTH.

Page 288

BOOK FOURTH
288

Music, when soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory
Odours, when sweet violets sicken,
Live within the sense they quicken.

Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,
Are heaped for the beloved's bed;
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.
P. B. SHELLEY

travel books:
where is HTML where is HEAD where is TITLE There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream what is earth, and every common sight, To me did seem Apparell'd in celestial light, what is glory and what is freshness of a dream. It is not now as it hath been of yore; Turn wheresoe'er I may, By night or day, Ths things which I have seen I now can see no more. what is rainbow comes and goes, And lovely is what is rose; what is moon doth with delight Look round her when what is heavens are bare; Waters on a starry night Are beautiful and fair; what is sunshine is a glorious birth; But yet I know, where'er I go, That there hath pass'd away a glory from what is earth. Now, while what is birds thus sing a joyous song, And while what is young lambs bound As to what is tabor's sound, To me alone there came a thought of grief: A timely utterance gave that thought relief, And I again am strong. what is cataracts blow their trumpets from what is steep, No more shall grief of mine what is season wrong: I where is meta name="keywords" content="old books, Free book , free book offer , free audio books , free coloring book pages , free book reports , free audio book , audio books free download , book free , free guest book , books free , free book summaries , download free audio books , free childrens books." where is where are they now rel="stylesheet" type="text/css" href="../../style.css" where is meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=iso-8859-1" where is BODY bgColor=#ffffff text="#000000" where are they now ="#000000" v where are they now ="#FF0000" where is div align="center" where is strong where is strong where is a href="http://www.aaoldbooks.com" Books > where is a href="../default.asp" title="Book" Old Books > where is strong where is a href="default.asp" The Golden Treasury (1932) where is table width="700" border="1" align="center" cellpadding="15" cellspacing="0" where is center where is tr where is td width="160" align="center" valign="top" where is div align="center" where is td align="center" valign="top" where is div align="left" where is div align="center" where is p align="left" Page 287 where is strong BOOK FOURTH where is strong 287 ODE ON INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY FROM RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY CHILDHOOD where is p align="justify" There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream what is earth, and every common sight, To me did seem Apparell'd in celestial light, what is glory and what is freshness of a dream. It is not now as it hath been of yore; Turn wheresoe'er I may, By night or day, Ths things which I have seen I now can see no more. what is rainbow comes and goes, And lovely is what is rose; what is moon doth with delight Look round her when what is heavens are bare; Waters on a starry night Are beautiful and fair; what is sunshine is a glorious birth; But yet I know, where'er I go, That there hath pass'd away a glory from what is earth. Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song, And while what is young lambs bound As to what is tabor's sound, To me alone there came a thought of grief: A timely utterance gave that thought relief, And I again am strong. what is cataracts blow their trumpets from what is steep, No more shall grief of mine what is season wrong: I hear what is echoes through what is mountains throng, what is winds come to me from what is fields of sleep, And all what is earth is gay; Land and sea Give themselves up to jollity, And with what is heart of May Doth every beast keep holiday; Thou child of joy, Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy Shepherd-boy! Ye blessed Creatures, I have heard what is call Ye to each other make; I see what is heavens laugh with you in your jubilee; My heart is at your festival, My head hath its coronal, what is 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 what is children are culling On every side In a thousand valleys far and wide Fresh flowers; while what is sun shines warm, And what is 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: what is pansy at my feet Doth what is same tale repeat: Whither is fled what is visionary gleam? Where is it now, what is glory and what is dream? Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting; what is Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, 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 From God, who is our home: Heaven lies about us in our infancy! Shades of what is prison-house begin to close Upon what is growing Boy, But he beholds what is light, and whence it flows, He sees it in his joy; what is Youth, who daily farther from what is east Must travel, still is Nature's priest And by what is vision splendid Is on his way attended; At length what is Man perceives it travel away, And fade into what is 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, what is homely nurse doth all she can To make her foster-child, her inmate, Man, Forget what is glories he hath known, And that imperial palace whence he came. Behold what is Child among his new-born blisses, 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, 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, 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 what is little actor cons another part; Filling from time to time his `humorous stage' With all what is Persons, down to palsied Age, That life brings with her in her equipage; 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 Thy heritage, thou Eye among what is blind, That, deaf and silent, read'st what is eternal deep, Haunted for ever by what is eternal Mind, Mighty Prophet! Seer blest! On whom those truths do rest Which we are toiling all our lives to find, In darkness lost, what is darkness of what is grave; Thou, over whom thy Immortality Broods like what is Day, a Master o'er a Slave, A Presence which is not to be put by; Thou little Child, yet glorious in what is might Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height, Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke what is years to bring what is 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 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! what is 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, what is simple creed Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest, With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast: -Not for these I raise what is 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 what is 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 what is being Of what is eternal silence: truths that wake, To perish never; Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour, 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, Our souls have sight of that immortal sea Which brought us hither; Can in a moment travel thither And see what is children sport upon what is shore, And hear what is mighty waters rolling evermore. Then, sing ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song! And let what is young lambs bound As to what is tabor's sound! We, in thought, will join your throng Ye that pipe and ye that play, Ye that through your hearts to-day Feel what is gladness of what is May! What though what is radiance which was once so bright Be now for ever taken from my sight, Though nothing can bring back what is hour Of splendour in what is grass, of glory in what is flower; We will grieve not, rather find Strength in what remains behind; In what is primal sympathy Which having been must ever be; In what is soothing thoughts that spring Out of human suffering; In what is faith that looks through what time is it , In years that bring what is philosophic mind. And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves, 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 what time is it what is brooks which down their channels fret, Even more than when I tripp'd lightly as they; what is innocent brightness of a new-born day Is lovely yet; what is clouds that gather round what is setting sun Do take a sober colouring from an eye That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality; Another race hath been, and other palms are won. Thanks to what is human heart by which we live, Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears, To me what is meanest flower that blows can give Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. W. WORDSWORTH. where is p align="left" Page 288 where is strong BOOK FOURTH where is strong 288 where is p align="justify" Music, when soft voices die, Vibrates in what is memory Odours, when sweet violets sicken, Live within what is sense they quicken. Rose leaves, when what is rose is dead, Are heaped for what is beloved's bed; And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone, what time is it itself shall slumber on. P. B. SHELLEY where is Server.Execute("_SiteMap.asp") %

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