And somewhat of a sad perplexity, The picture of the mind revives again: While here I stand, not only with the sense Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts That in this moment there is life and food For future years. And so I dare to hope, Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when first I came among these hills; when like a roe I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams, Wherever nature led: more like a man Flying from something that he dreads, than one Who sought the thing he loved. For nature then (The coarser pleasures of my boyish days, And their glad animal movements all gone by) To me was all in all.—I cannot paint What then I was. The sounding cataract Haunted me like a passion: the tall rock, The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, Their colours and their forms, were then to me An appetite; a feeling and a love,
That had no need of a remoter charm, By thought supplied, nor any interest Unborrowed from the eye. That time is past, And all its aching joys are
now no more, And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur; other gifts Have followed; for such loss, I would believe, Abundant recompence. For I have learned To look on nature, not as in the hour Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity,
Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power To chasten and subdue. And I have felt
A presence that disturbs me with the joy Of elevated thoughts: a sense sublime Of something far more deeply interfused, Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, And the round ocean and the living air, And the blue sky, and in the mind of man:
A motion and a spirit, that impels
All thinking things, all objects of all thought, And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still A lover of the meadows and the woods, And mountains; and of all that we behold From this green earth; of all the mighty world Of eye and ear,-both what they half create, And what perceive; well pleased to recognise In nature and the language of the sense, The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse, The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul Of all my moral being.
If I were not thus taught, should I the more Suffer my genial spirits to decay:
For thou art with me here upon the banks Of this fair river; thou, my dearest Friend, My dear, dear Friend; and in thy voice I catch The language of my former heart, and read My former pleasures in the shooting lights Of thy wild eyes. Oh! yet a little while May I behold in thee what I was once, My dear, dear Sister! and this prayer I make Knowing that Nature never did betray The heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege Through all the years of this our life, to lead From joy to joy: for she can so inform The mind that is within us, so impress With quietness and beauty, and so feed With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues, Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all The dreary intercourse of daily life, Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon Shine on thee in thy solitary walk; And let the misty mountain winds be free To blow against thee: and, in after years, When these wild ecstasies shall be matured
Into a sober pleasure; when thy mind Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms, Thy memory be as a dwelling-place
For all sweet sounds and harmonies; oh! then, If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief, Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts Of tender joy wilt thou remember me,
And these my exhortations! Nor, perchance- If I should be where I no more can hear Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes those gleams
Of past existence,-wilt thou then forget That on the banks of this delightful stream We stood together; and that I, so long A worshipper of Nature, hither came Unwearied in that service: rather say With warmer love, oh! with far deeper zeal Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget, That after many wanderings, many years Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs, And this green pastoral landscape, were to me More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake!
THE DAFFODILS
I WANDER'D lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host of golden daffodils, Beside the lake, beneath the trees Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretch'd in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced, but they Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:- A Poet could not but be gay
In such a jocund company!
I gazed and gazed-but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought;
For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils.
WITH little here to do or see Of things that in the great world be, Sweet Daisy! oft I talk to thee For thou art worthy,
Thou unassuming commonplace Of Nature, with that homely face, And yet with something of a grace Which love makes for thee!
Oft on the dappled turf at ease I sit and play with similes,
Loose types of things through all degrees, Thoughts of thy raising;
And many a fond and idle name I give to thee, for praise or blame As is the humour of the game, While I am gazing.
A nun demure, of lowly port; Or sprightly maiden, of Love's court, In thy simplicity the sport
Of all temptations;
A queen in crown of rubies drest; A starveling in a scanty vest; Are all, as seems to suit thee best, Thy appellations.
A little Cyclops, with one eye Staring to threaten and defy, That thought comes next-and instantly The freak is over,
The shape will vanish, and behold! A silver shield with boss of gold That spreads itself, some fairy bold In fight to cover.
I see thee glittering from afar- And then thou art a pretty star, Not quite so fair as many are In heaven above thee!
Yet like a star, with glittering crest, Self-poised in air thou seem'st to rest;- May peace come never to his nest Who shall reprove thee!
Sweet Flower! for by that name at last When all my reveries are past I call thee, and to that cleave fast, Sweet silent Creature!
That breath'st with me in sun and air, Do thou, as thou art wont, repair My heart with gladness, and a share Of thy meek nature!
O BLITHE new-comer! I have heard, I hear thee and rejoice:
O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird,
Or but a wandering Voice?
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