WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

My head hath its coronal, The fullness of your bliss, I feel I feel it all.

evil day ! if I were sullen While Earth herself is adorning,

This sweet May-morning, And the children are culling

On every side,

In a thousand valleys far and wide, Fresh flowers ; while the sun shines warm, And the babe leaps up on his mother's arm :

1 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 : Whither is fled the visionary gleam ? Where is it now, the glory and the dream ?

��Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting : The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star,

Hath had elsewhere its setting, And cometh from afar:

Not in entire forgetfulness,

And not in utter nakedness, But trailing clouds of glory do we come

From God, who is our home : 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 ;

�� �