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* And here, on this delightful day, I cannot choose but think How oft, a vigorous man, I lay Beside this fountain's brink. ‘My eyes are dim with childish tears, My heart is idly stirr'd, For the same sound is in my ears Which in those days I heard. • Thus fares it still in our decay : And yet the wiser mind Mourns less for what Age takes away, Than what it leaves behind. • The blackbird amid leafy trees, The lark above the hill, Let loose their carols when they please, Are quiet when they will. • With Nature never do they wage A foolish strife; they see A happy youth, and their old age Is beautiful and free:

• But we are press’d by heavy laws ;
And often, glad no more,
We wear a face of joy, because
We have been glad of yore.
'If there be one who need bemoan
His kindred laid in earth,
The household hearts that were his own,-
It is the man of mirth.
“My days, my friend, are almost gone,
My life has been approved,

love me; but by none
Am I enough beloved.'
Now both himself and me he wrongs,
The man who thus complains !
I live and sing my idle songs
Upon these happy plains :

' And Matthew, for thy children dead
I'll be a son to thee !!
At this he grasp'd my hand and said,
* Alas! that cannot be.'
- We rose up from the fountain-side ;
And down the smooth descent
Of the green sheep-track did we glide;
And through the wood we went ;
And ere we came to Leonard's rock
He sang those witty rhymes
About the crazy old church-clock,
And the bewilder'd chimes.

W. Wordsworth



The more we live, more brief appear

Our life's succeeding stages :
A day to childhood seems a year,

And years like passing ages.
The gladsome current of our youth,

Ere passion yet disorders,
Steals lingering like a river smooth

Along its grassy borders.
But as the care-worn cheek grows wan,

And sorrow's shafts fly thicker,
Ye Stars, that measure life to man,

Why seem your courses quicker?
When joys have lost their bloom and breath

And life itself is vapid,
Why, as we reach the Falls of Death,

Feel we its tide more rapid ?
It may be strange--yet who would change

Time's course to slower speeding, When one by one our friends have gone

And left our bosoms bleeding ?

Heaven gives our years of facling strength

Indemnifying fleetness ;
And those of youth, a seeming length,
Proportion'd to their sweetness.

T. Campbell



Four Seasons fill the measure of the year ;
There are four seasons in the mind of man :
He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clear
Takes in all beauty with an easy span :
He has his Summer, when luxuriously
Spring's honey'd cud of youthful thought he loves
To ruminate, and by such dreaming high
Is nearest unto heaven : quiet coves
His soul has in its Autumn, when his wings
He furleth close ; contented so to look
On mists in idleness--to let fair things
Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook.
He has his Winter too of pale misfeature,
Or else he would forego his mortal nature.

J. Keats



Rough wind, that moanest loud

Grief too sad for song ;
Wild wind, when sullen cloud

Knells all the night long ;
Sad storm whose tears are vain,
Bare woods whose branches stain,
Deep caves and dreary main,-
Wail for the world's wrong!

P. B. Sielley



O World ! O Life! O Time!
On whose last steps I climb,

Trembling at that where I had stood before ;
When will return the glory of your prime?

No more-Oh, never more !
Out of the day and night
A joy has taken flight:

Fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoar Move my faint heart with grief, but with delight No more_Oh, never more !

P. B. Shelley



There's not a nook within this solemn Pass,
But were an apt confessional for One
Taught by his summer spent, his autumn gone,
That Life is but a tale of morning grass
Wither'd at eve. From scenes of art which chase
That thought away, turn, and with watchful eyes
Feed it ʼmid Nature's old felicities,
Rocks, rivers, and smooth lakes more clear than glass
Untouch’d, unbreathed upon :-Thrice happy quest,
If from a golden perch of aspen spray
(October's workmanship to rival May),
The pensive warbler of the ruddy breast
That moral sweeten by a heaven-taught lay,
Lulling the year, with all its cares, to rest!

W. Wordsworth :


My heart leaps up when I behold

A rainbow in the sky :
So was it when my life began,
So is it now I am a man,
So be it when I shall grow old

Or let me die !
The Child is father of the Man :
And I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each hy natural piety.

IV. Wordsworth



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,
The 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
That there hath past 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,


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