50 55 60 65 70 In a thousand valleys far and wide, A single Field which I have looked upon, Doth the same tale repeat: Whither is fled the visionary gleam? Where is it now, the glory and the dream? V. Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting: And cometh from afar: But trailing clouds of glory do we come But He beholds the light, and whence it flows The Youth, who daily farther from the east Is on his way attended; 75 At length the Man perceives it die away, And fade into the light of common day. VI. Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own; 80 And, even with something of a Mother's mind, The homely Nurse doth all she can To make her Foster-child, her Inmate Man, VII. 85 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! 90 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, 95 100 A mourning or a funeral; And this hath now his heart, And unto this he frames his song: 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" With all the Persons, down to palsied Age, 105 That Life brings with her in her equipage; As if his whole vocation Were endless imitation. VIII. Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie 110 Thou best Philosopher, who yet dost keep 115 That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep, Mighty Prophet! Seer blest! On whom those truths do rest, Broods like the Day, a Master o'er a Slave, 120 A Presence which is not to be put by; Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might 125 Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife? 130 IX. O joy! that in our embers The thought of our past years in me doth breed 135 For that which is most worthy to be blest; 140 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; 145 Moving about in worlds not realized, 150 High instincts before which our mortal Nature But for those first affections, Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavor, Nor all that is at enmity with joy, 160 Can utterly abolish or destroy! 165 170 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 pipe and ye that play, Ye that through your hearts to-day 175 What though the radiance which was once so bright Be now forever taken from my sight, Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower; 180 185 Strength in what remains behind; Which having been must ever be; In the faith that looks through death XI. And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills and Forebode not any severing of our loves! Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might; 190 I only have relinquished one delight 195 To live beneath your more habitual sway. I love the Brooks which down their channels fret, Is lovely yet; The Clouds that gather round the setting sun That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality; "I WANDERED LONELY AS A CLOUD" I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, A host, of golden daffodils; 5 Beside the lake, beneath the trees, |