Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood

William Wordsworth. 1770–1850
536. Ode 
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.	         5
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,	  10
        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;	  15
    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	  20
        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;	  25
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	  30
    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	  35
Ye blessèd 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,	  40
      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,	  45
        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:—	  50
        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	  55
          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,	  60
        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	  65
        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,	  70
        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;	  75
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,	  80
        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.	  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-learnèd art;	 
    A wedding or a festival,	 
    A mourning or a funeral;	  95
        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	 100
        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.	 
Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie	 
        Thy soul's immensity;	 110
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!	 115
        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,	 120
A presence which is not to be put by;	 
          To whom the grave	 
Is but a lonely bed without the sense or sight	 
        Of day or the warm light,	 
A place of thought where we in waiting lie;	 125
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?	 130
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,	 135
        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—	 140
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;	 145
    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,	 150
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,	 155
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,	 160
            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!	 165
    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,	 170
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!	 175
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	 180
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;	 185
      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,	 190
In years that bring the philosophic mind.	 
And O ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves,	 
Forebode not any severing of our loves!	 
Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;	 
I only have relinquish'd one delight	 195
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;	 200
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,	 205
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.