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And all the earth is gay;
Land and sea
Give themselves up to jollity,
Thou Child of Joy,
My head hath its coronal,
This sweet May-morning,
On every side,
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:
The Pansy at my feet
Doth the same tale repeat:
Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting :
And cometh from afar ;
And not in utter nakedness,
From God, who is our home:
Upon the growing Boy,
He sees it in his joy;
The Youth, who daily farther from the east
And by the vision splendid
Is on his way attended ;
And no unworthy aim,
Forget the glories he hath known,
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,
Some fragment from his dream of human life, Shaped by himself with newly-learned art;
A wedding or a festival,
And this hath now his heart,
Then will he fit his tongue
But it will not be long
And with new joy and pride
As if his whole vocation
Were endless imitation.
Thy Soul's immensity;
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,
Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife ?
Is something that doth live,
What was so fugitive!
Perpetual benediction : not indeed
Delight and liberty, the simple creed
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,
High instincts before which our mortal Nature
But for those first affections,
Are yet the fountain light of all our day,
Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make
To perish never;
Nor Man nor Boy,
Though inland far we be,
Which brought us hither,
Can in a moment travel thither,
Then sing, ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous song !
And let the young Lambs bound
As to the tabor's sound !
Ye that pipe and ye that play,
Feel the gladness of the May!
Though nothing can bring back the hour
We will grieve not, rather find
In the faith that looks through death,
And O ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves,
To live beneath your more habitual sway.
Is lovely yet ;
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, To me the meanest flower that blows can give Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
Lock'd up within the casket of thy breast?
What heavenly treasure in so weak a chest ? Look in thy soul, and thou shalt beauties find,
Like those which drown'd Narcissus in the flood; Honour and pleasure both are in thy mind,
And all that in the world is counted good.
This worthy mind should worthy things embrace ; Blot not her beauties with thy thoughts unclean,
Nor her dishonour with thy passion base. Kill not her quick'ning power with surfeitings:
Mar not her sense with sensuality : Cast not her wit on idle things :
Make not her free-will slave to vanity. And when thou think'st of her eternity,
Think not that death against her nature is ;
Sing like a swan, as if thou went'st to bliss.
To view the beams of thine own form divine,
While thou art clothed with this flesh of mine. Take heed of overweening, and compare
Thy peacock's feet with thy gay peacock's train ; Study the best and highest things that are,
But of thyself an humble thought retain.
The glory of thy Maker's sacred name :