WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

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 Delight and liberty, the simple creed 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, High instincts before which our mortal Nature Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised : But for those first affections, 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 Man nor Boy, Nor all that is at enmity with joy, Can utterly abolish or destroy !

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