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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=540076" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Ode On Intimations Of Immortality</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">From Recollections of Early Childhood<br> <br>  The Child is father of the Man;<br>  And I could wish my days to be<br>  Bound each to each by natural piety.<br> <br> <br>  I<br> <br> There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,<br> The earth, and every common sight,<br> To me did seem<br> Apparelled in celestial light,<br> The glory and the freshness of a dream.<br> It is not now as it hath been of yore;--<br> Turn wheresoe'er I may,<br> By night or day,<br> The things which I have seen I now can see no more.<br> <br> <br>  II<br> <br> The Rainbow comes and goes,<br> And lovely is the Rose,<br> The Moon doth with delight<br> Look round her when the heavens are bare;<br> Waters on a starry night<br> Are beautiful and fair;<br> The sunshine is a glorious birth;<br> But yet I know, where'er I go,<br> That there hath past away a glory from the earth.<br> <br> <br>  III<br> <br> Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song,<br> And while the young lambs bound<br> As to the tabor's sound,<br> To me alone there came a thought of grief:<br> A timely utterance gave that thought relief,<br> And I again am strong:<br> The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep;<br> No more shall grief of mine the season wrong;<br> I hear the Echoes through the mountains throng,<br> The Winds come to me from the fields of sleep,<br> And all the earth is gay;<br> Land and sea<br> Give themselves up to jollity,<br> And with the heart of May<br> Doth every Beast keep holiday;--<br> Thou Child of Joy,<br> Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy Shepherd-boy!<br> <br> <br>  IV<br> <br> Ye blesse`d Creatures, I have heard the call<br> Ye to each other make; I see<br> The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee;<br> My heart is at your festival,<br> My head hath its coronal,<br> The fulness of your bliss, I feel--I feel it all.<br> Oh evil day! if I were sullen<br> While the Earth herself is adorning,<br> This sweet May-morning,<br> And the Children are culling<br> On every side,<br> In a thousand valleys far and wide,<br> Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm,<br> And the Babe leaps up on his Mother's arm:--<br> I hear, I hear, with joy I hear!<br> --But there's a Tree, of many, one,<br> A single Field which I have looked upon,<br> Both of them speak of something that is gone:<br> The Pansy at my feet<br> Doth the same tale repeat:<br> Whither is fled the visionary gleam?<br> Where is it now, the glory and the dream?<br> <br> <br>  V<br> <br> Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:<br> The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star,<br> Hath had elsewhere its setting,<br> And cometh from afar:<br> Not in entire forgetfulness,<br> And not in utter nakedness,<br> But trailing clouds of glory do we come<br> From God, who is our home:<br> Heaven lies about us in our infancy!<br> Shades of the prison-house begin to close<br> Upon the growing Boy,<br> But He beholds the light, and whence it flows,<br> He sees it in his joy;<br> The Youth, who daily farther from the east<br> Must travel, still is Nature's Priest,<br> And by the vision splendid<br> Is on his way attended;<br> At length the Man perceives it die away,<br> And fade into the light of common day.<br> <br> <br>  VI<br> <br> Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own;<br> Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind,<br> And, even with something of a Mother's mind,<br> And no unworthy aim,<br> The homely Nurse doth all she can<br> To make her Foster-child, her Inmate Man,<br> Forget the glories he hath known,<br> And that imperial palace whence he came.<br> <br> <br>  VII<br> <br> Behold the Child among his new-born blisses,<br> A six years' Darling of a pigmy size!<br> See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies,<br> Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses,<br> With light upon him from his father's eyes!<br> See, at his feet, some little plan or chart,<br> Some fragment from his dream of human life,<br> Shaped by himself with newly-learned art;<br> A wedding or a festival,<br> A mourning or a funeral;<br> And this hath now his heart,<br> And unto this he frames his song:<br> Then will he fit his tongue<br> To dialogues of business, love, or strife;<br> But it will not be long<br> Ere this be thrown aside,<br> And with new joy and pride<br> The little Actor cons another part;<br> Filling from time to time his 'humorous stage'<br> With all the Persons, down to palsied Age,<br> That Life brings with her in her equipage;<br> As if his whole vocation<br> Were endless imitation.<br> <br> <br>  VIII<br> <br> Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie<br> Thy Soul's immensity;<br> Thou best Philosopher, who yet dost keep<br> Thy heritage, thou Eye among the blind,<br> That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep,<br> Haunted for ever by the eternal mind,--<br> Might Prophet! Seer blest!<br> On whom those truths do rest,<br> Which we are toiling all our lives to find,<br> In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave;<br> Thou, over whom thy Immortality<br> Broods like the Day, a Master o'er a Slave,<br> A Presence which is not to be put by;<br> [To whom the grave<br> Is but a lonely bed without the sense or sight<br> Of day or the warm light,<br> A place of thought where we in waiting lie;]<br> Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might<br> Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height,<br> Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke<br> The years to bring the inevitable yoke,<br> Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife?<br> Full soon thy Soul shall have her earthly freight,<br> And custom lie upon thee with a weight,<br> Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life!<br> <br> <br>  IX<br> <br> O joy! that in our embers<br> Is something that doth live,<br> That nature yet remembers<br> What was so fugitive!<br> The thought of our past years in me doth breed<br> Perpetual benediction: not indeed<br> For that which is most worthy to be blest;<br> Delight and liberty, the simple creed<br> Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest,<br> With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast:--<br> Not for these I raise<br> The song of thanks and praise;<br> But for those obstinate questionings<br> Of sense and outward things,<br> Fallings from us, vanishings;<br> Blank misgivings of a Creature<br> Moving about in worlds not realised,<br> High instincts before which our mortal Nature<br> Did tremble like a guilty Thing surprised:<br> But for those first affections,<br> Those shadowy recollections,<br> Which, be they what they may,<br> Are yet the fountain-light of all our day,<br> Are yet a master-light of all our seeing;<br> Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make<br> Our noisy years seem moments in the being<br> Of the eternal Silence: truths that wake,<br> To perish never;<br> Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavor,<br> Nor Man nor Boy,<br> Nor all that is at enmity with joy,<br> Can utterly abolish or destroy!<br> Hence in a season of calm weather<br> Though inland far we be,<br> Our Souls have sight of that immortal sea<br> Which brought us hither,<br> Can in a moment travel thither,<br> And see the Children sport upon the shore,<br> And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.<br> <br> <br>  X<br> <br> Then sing, ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous song!<br> And yet the young Lambs bound<br> As to the tabor's sound!<br> We in thought will join your throng,<br> Ye that pipe and ye that play,<br> Ye that through your hearts to-day<br> Feel the gladness of the May!<br> What though the radiance which was once so bright<br> Be now for ever taken from my sight,<br> Though nothing can bring back the hour<br> Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;<br> We will grieve not, rather find<br> Strength in what remains behind;<br> In the primal sympathy<br> Which having been must ever be;<br> In the soothing thoughts that spring<br> Out of human suffering;<br> In the faith that looks through death,<br> In years that bring the philosophic mind.<br> <br> <br>  XI<br> <br> And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves,<br> Forebode not any severing of our loves!<br> Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;<br> I only have relinquished one delight<br> To live beneath your more habitual sway.<br> I love the Brooks which down their channels fret,<br> Even more than when I tripped lightly as they;<br> The innocent brightness of a new-born Day<br> Is lovely yet;<br> The Clouds that gather round the setting sun<br> Do take a sober colouring from an eye<br> That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality;<br> Another race hath been, and other palms are won.<br> Thanks to the human heart by which we live,<br> Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,<br> To me the meanest flower that blows can give<br> Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.<br> <br>  [comp. 1802-1804(?); publ. 1807]</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=William+Wordsworth">William Wordsworth</a><div class=q>
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  The Child is father of the Man;
  And I could wish my days to be
  Bound each to each by natural piety.
 
 
  I
 
 There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
 The earth, and every common sight,
 To m..."></div>
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