He has his Summer, when luxuriously Is nearest unto heaven: quiet coves His soul has in its Autumn, when his wings He has his Winter too of pale misfeature, J. KEATS. 285. A LAMENT. 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-O 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-O never more! P. B. SHELLEY. 286. My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky: So was it when my life began, So be it when I shall grow old Or let me die! The Child is father of the Man: Bound each to each by natural piety. 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. 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 go, That there hath pass'd away a glory from the earth. Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song, As to the tabor's sound, To me alone there came a thought of grief: The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep,- I hear the echoes through the mountains throng, Give themselves up to jollity, And with the heart of May Doth every beast keep holiday ;— Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy Ye blessed creatures, I have heard the call The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee ; My head hath its coronal, The fulness of your bliss, I feel-I feel it all. This sweet May morning; And the children are pulling On every side In a thousand valleys far and wide And the babe leaps up on his mother's arm :~- -But there's a tree, of many, one, A single field which I have look'd upon, Doth the same tale repeat: Whither is fled the visionary gleam? Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting; Hath had elsewhere its setting 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 Is on his way attended; At length the man perceives it die away, 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 wedding or a festival, 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. 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? |