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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=540081" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Ode: Intimations of Immortality</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I</div><div style="margin:10px 0">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.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>II</div><div style="margin:10px 0">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.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>III</div><div style="margin:10px 0">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<br>Shepherd-boy!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>IV</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Ye blessed 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 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?</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>V</div><div style="margin:10px 0">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.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>VI</div><div style="margin:10px 0">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.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>VII</div><div style="margin:10px 0">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 &quot;humorous stage&quot;<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.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>VIII</div><div style="margin:10px 0">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>Mighty 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>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!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>IX</div><div style="margin:10px 0">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 endeavour,<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.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>X</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Then sing, ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous song!<br>And let 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.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>XI</div><div style="margin:10px 0">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.</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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There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
The earth, and every common sight,
To me did seem
Apparelled in celestial light,
The glory and the freshness of a dream.
It is not now as it hath been of yore;--
Turn wheresoe'er I may,
By night ..."></div>
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