And the children are pulling, 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 looked upon, Doth the same tale repeat: Whither is fled the visionary gleam? V. Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting: 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! But he beholds the light, and whence it flows The youth, who daily farther from the east And by the vision splendid 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 VII. Behold the child among his new-born blisses, A mourning or a funeral : And this hath now his heart, 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 Were endless imitation. VIII. Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep On whom those truths do rest, Which we are toiling all our lives to find, Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife, And custom lie upon thee with a weight, IX. joy! that in our embers Is something that doth live, What was so fugitive! 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, 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 realised, 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, Of the eternal silence: truths that wake, 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, 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 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; Strength in what remains behind; Which having been must ever be, |