ODE. 759 V. Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting; And cometh from afar, 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, VI. 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, VII. Behold the child among his new-born blisses - With light upon him from his father's eyes! 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" That life brings with her in her equipage; Were endless imitation. VIII. Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie, Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep On whom those truths do rest The years to bring the inevitable yoke, 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! 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, 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, 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 Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavor, Nor all that is at enmity with joy, Can utterly abolish or destroy! Hence in a season of calm weather, Though inland far we be, Our souls have sight of that immortal sea Can in a moment travel thither, Χ. 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 What though the radiance which was once so bright Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower- Which, having been, must ever be; In the faith that looks through death, XI. 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 relinquished one delight To live beneath your more habitual sway. I love the brooks which down their channels fret, The clouds that gather round the setting sun 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, Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fearsTo me the meanest flower that blows can give Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. The Light of Stars. THE night is come, but not too soon; All silently, the little moon There is no light in earth or heaven, Is it the tender star of love? The star of love and dreams? Oh no! from that blue tent above A hero's armor gleams. And earnest thoughts within me rise, Suspended in the evening skies, O star of strength! I see thee stand |