Not in entire forgetfulness,
And not in utter nakedness,

But trailing clouds of glory we do come
From God, who is our home:
5 Heaven lies about us in our infancy!
Shades of the prison-house begin to close
Upon the growing Boy,

But he beholds the light, and whence it flows,
He sees it in his joy;

10 The Youth, who daily farther from the east
Must trayel, still is Nature's priest,
And by the vision splendid

Is on his way attended;

At length the Man perceives it die away, 15 And fade into the light of common day.

20

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,

Forget the glories he hath known,
And that imperial palace whence he came.

Behold the Child among his new-born blisses, 25 A six years' darling of a pigmy size!

See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies, Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses, With light upon him from his father's eyes! See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, 30 Some fragment from his dream of human life, Shaped by himself with newly-learnéd art; A wedding or a festival,

A mourning or a funeral;

And this hath now his heart,
And unto this he frames his song:
Then will he fit his tongue

To dialogues of business, love, or strife;
But it will not be long

Ere this be thrown aside,
And with new joy and pride

5

The little actor cons another part;

Filling from time to time his humorous stage'
With all the Persons, down to palsied Age,
That life brings with her in her equipage;
As if his whole vocation

Were endless imitation.

Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie
Thy soul's immensity;

Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep
10 Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind,
That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep,
Haunted for ever by the eternal Mind,—
Mighty Prophet! Seer blest!

On whom those truths do rest
15 Which we are toiling all our lives to find,
In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave;
Thou, over whom thy Immortality

Broods like the day, a master o'er a slave,
A Presence which is not to be put by;

20 Thou little child, yet glorious in the might
Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height,
Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke
The years to bring the inevitable yoke,

Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife?
25 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!

30

30

O joy! that in our embers
Is something that doth live,
That Nature yet remembers
What was so fugitive!

The thought of our past years in me doth breed

Perpetual benediction: not indeed

For that which is most worthy to be blest,

35 Delight and liberty, the simple creed

40

Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest,

With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast:-
-Not for these I raise

The song of thanks and praise;
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,

5 High instincts, before which our mortal nature
Did tremble like a guilty thing surprized:
But for those first affections,

Those shadowy recollections,

Which, be they what they may, 10 Are yet the fountain-light of all our day, Are yet a master-light of all our seeing;

15

20

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 man nor boy

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-
25 And see the children sport upon the shore,
And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.

30

Then, sing ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song!
And let the young lambs bound

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
Feel the gladness of the May!

What though the radiance which was once so bright 35 Be now for ever taken from my sight,

40

Though nothing can bring back the hour

Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind;
In the primal sympathy

Which having been must ever be;

In the soothing thoughts that spring
Out of human suffering;

In the faith that looks through death,
In years that bring the philosophic mind.

5 And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves, Forbode not any severing of our loves!

Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;
I only have relinquish'd one delight

To live beneath your more habitual sway:

10 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 15 Do take a sober colouring from an eye

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 fears, 20 To me the meanest flower that blows can give Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. W. Wordsworth

CCCXXXIX

Music, when soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory-

Odours, when sweet violets sicken,
Live within the sense they quicken.

Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,
Are heap'd for the beloved's bed;

And so thy thoughts, when Thou art gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.

P. B. Shelley

NOTES

INDEX OF WRITERS

AND

INDEX OF FIRST LINES