wordsworth ode intimations of immortality

I love the Brooks which down their channels fret,Įven more than when I tripped lightly as they Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might In years that bring the philosophic mind.Īnd O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves, Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower What though the radiance which was once so bright Then sing, ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous song! Our Souls have sight of that immortal seaĪnd see the Children sport upon the shore,Īnd hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour, Of the eternal Silence: truths that wake, Our noisy years seem moments in the being Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make High instincts before which our mortal Natureĭid tremble like a guilty thing surprised:Īre yet the fountain-light of all our day,Īre yet a master-light of all our seeing With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast:. The thought of our past years in me doth breedįor that which is most worthy to be blest Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife?įull soon thy Soul shall have her earthly freight, Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke Of heaven-born freedom on thy being’s height, Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave īroods like the Day, a Master o’er a Slave, Which we are toiling all our lives to find, That, deaf and silent, read’st the eternal deep, Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie That Life brings with her in her equipage With all the Persons, down to palsied Age, To dialogues of business, love, or strife įilling from time to time his “humorous stage” Some fragment from his dream of human life, See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, With light upon him from his father’s eyes! See, where ‘mid work of his own hand he lies,įretted by sallies of his mother’s kisses, To make her Foster-child, her Inmate Man,īehold the Child among his new-born blisses, Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind,Īnd, even with something of a Mother’s mind, The Youth, who daily farther from the eastĮarth fills her lap with pleasures of her own Shades of the prison-house begin to closeīut he beholds the light, and whence it flows, The Soul that rises with us, our life’s Star, Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting: Where is it now, the glory and the dream?

The fullness of your bliss, I feel-I feel it all.įresh flowers while the sun shines warm,Īnd the Babe leaps up on his Mother’s arm:-īoth of them speak of something that is gone The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee Ye blessèd creatures, I have heard the call

Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy Shepherd-boy.

Wordsworth ode intimations of immortality