In a thousand valleys far and wide, Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm, And the babe leaps up on his mother's arm:— 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: Doth the same tale repeat: Whither is fled the visionary gleam? Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting; And cometh from afar; And not in utter nakedness, But trailing clouds of glory do we come But he beholds the light, and whence it flows, Is on his way attended; At length the man perceives it die away, Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own; The homely nurse doth all she can Behold the Child among his new-born blisses, See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies, A mourning or a funeral; And this hath now his heart, And unto this he frames his song: 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' Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep On whom those truths do rest Which we are toiling all our lives to find; Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife? O joy! that in our embers The thought of our past years in me doth breed For that which is most worthy to be blest, Of childhood, whether busy or at rest, The song of thanks and praise; Blank misgivings of a creature High instincts, before which our mortal nature 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 Our noisy years seem moments in the being Of the eternal silence: truths that wake, To perish never; Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour, 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 Which brought us hither; Can in a moment travel thither And see the children sport upon the shore, Then sing, ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song! As to the tabor's sound! We, in thought, will join your throng Ye that through your hearts to-day Feel the gladness of the May! What though the radiance which was once so bright 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; Which having been must ever be, In the faith that looks through death, In years that bring the philosophic mind. And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves, I only have relinquish'd one delight 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; The clouds that gather round the setting sun 365 366 Thanks to the human heart by which we live, MY HEART LEAPS UP My heart leaps up when I behold So was it when my life began, So be it when I shall grow old Or let me die! The Child is father of the Man: And I could wish my days to be THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS WE walk'd along, while bright and red And Matthew stopp'd, he look'd, and said A village schoolmaster was he, As blithe a man as you could see On a spring holiday. And on that morning, through the grass And by the steaming rills We travell'd merrily, to pass A day among the hills. 'Our work,' said I, 'was well begun; So sad a sigh has brought?' |