There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,The earth, and every common sight,To me did seemApparell’d in celestial light,The glory and the freshness of a dream.It is not now as it hath been of yore;—Turn wheresoe’er I may,By night or day,The things which I have seen I now can see no more.The rainbow comes and goes,And lovely is the rose;The moon doth with delightLook round her when the heavens are bare;Waters on a starry nightAre beautiful and fair;The sunshine is a glorious birth;But yet I know, where’er I go,That there hath passed away a glory from the earth.Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song,And while the young lambs boundAs to the tabor’s sound,To me alone there came a thought of grief:A timely utterance gave that thought relief,And I again am strong.The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep;No more shall grief of mine the season wrong;I hear the echoes through the mountains throng,The winds come to me from the fields of sleep,And all the earth is gay;Land and seaGive themselves up to jollity,And with the heart of MayDoth every beast keep holiday;—Thou Child of Joy,Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy Shepherd-boy!Ye blessed creatures, I have heard the callYe to each other make; I seeThe heavens laugh with you in your jubilee;My heart is at your festival,My head hath its coronal,The fulness of your bliss, I feel—I feel it all.O evil day! if I were sullenWhile Earth herself is adorning,This sweet May morning,And the children are cullingOn 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:—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 feetDoth 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 comeFrom God, who is our home:Heaven lies about us in our infancy!Shades of the prison-house begin to closeUpon the growing Boy,But he beholds the light, and whence it flows,He sees it in his joy;The Youth, who daily further from the eastMust travel, still is Nature’s priest,And by the vision splendidIs on his way attended;At length the man perceives it die away,And fade into the light of common day.
There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,The earth, and every common sight,To me did seemApparell’d in celestial light,The glory and the freshness of a dream.It is not now as it hath been of yore;—Turn wheresoe’er I may,By night or day,The things which I have seen I now can see no more.The rainbow comes and goes,And lovely is the rose;The moon doth with delightLook round her when the heavens are bare;Waters on a starry nightAre beautiful and fair;The sunshine is a glorious birth;But yet I know, where’er I go,That there hath passed away a glory from the earth.Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song,And while the young lambs boundAs to the tabor’s sound,To me alone there came a thought of grief:A timely utterance gave that thought relief,And I again am strong.The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep;No more shall grief of mine the season wrong;I hear the echoes through the mountains throng,The winds come to me from the fields of sleep,And all the earth is gay;Land and seaGive themselves up to jollity,And with the heart of MayDoth every beast keep holiday;—Thou Child of Joy,Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy Shepherd-boy!Ye blessed creatures, I have heard the callYe to each other make; I seeThe heavens laugh with you in your jubilee;My heart is at your festival,My head hath its coronal,The fulness of your bliss, I feel—I feel it all.O evil day! if I were sullenWhile Earth herself is adorning,This sweet May morning,And the children are cullingOn 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:—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 feetDoth 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 comeFrom God, who is our home:Heaven lies about us in our infancy!Shades of the prison-house begin to closeUpon the growing Boy,But he beholds the light, and whence it flows,He sees it in his joy;The Youth, who daily further from the eastMust travel, still is Nature’s priest,And by the vision splendidIs on his way attended;At length the man perceives it die away,And fade into the light of common day.
There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,The earth, and every common sight,To me did seemApparell’d in celestial light,The glory and the freshness of a dream.It is not now as it hath been of yore;—Turn wheresoe’er I may,By night or day,The things which I have seen I now can see no more.
There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
The earth, and every common sight,
To me did seem
Apparell’d in celestial light,
The glory and the freshness of a dream.
It is not now as it hath been of yore;—
Turn wheresoe’er I may,
By night or day,
The things which I have seen I now can see no more.
The rainbow comes and goes,And lovely is the rose;The moon doth with delightLook round her when the heavens are bare;Waters on a starry nightAre beautiful and fair;The sunshine is a glorious birth;But yet I know, where’er I go,That there hath passed away a glory from the earth.
The rainbow comes and goes,
And lovely is the rose;
The moon doth with delight
Look round her when the heavens are bare;
Waters on a starry night
Are beautiful and fair;
The sunshine is a glorious birth;
But yet I know, where’er I go,
That there hath passed away a glory from the earth.
Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song,And while the young lambs boundAs to the tabor’s sound,To me alone there came a thought of grief:A timely utterance gave that thought relief,And I again am strong.The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep;No more shall grief of mine the season wrong;I hear the echoes through the mountains throng,The winds come to me from the fields of sleep,And all the earth is gay;Land and seaGive themselves up to jollity,And with the heart of MayDoth every beast keep holiday;—Thou Child of Joy,Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy Shepherd-boy!
Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song,
And while the young lambs bound
As to the tabor’s sound,
To me alone there came a thought of grief:
A timely utterance gave that thought relief,
And I again am strong.
The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep;
No more shall grief of mine the season wrong;
I hear the echoes through the mountains throng,
The winds come to me from the fields of sleep,
And all the earth is gay;
Land and sea
Give themselves up to jollity,
And with the heart of May
Doth every beast keep holiday;—
Thou Child of Joy,
Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy Shepherd-boy!
Ye blessed creatures, I have heard the callYe to each other make; I seeThe heavens laugh with you in your jubilee;My heart is at your festival,My head hath its coronal,The fulness of your bliss, I feel—I feel it all.O evil day! if I were sullenWhile Earth herself is adorning,This sweet May morning,And the children are cullingOn every side,In a thousand valleys far and wide,
Ye blessed creatures, I have heard the call
Ye to each other make; I see
The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee;
My heart is at your festival,
My head hath its coronal,
The fulness of your bliss, I feel—I feel it all.
O 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:—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 feetDoth the same tale repeat:Whither is fled the visionary gleam?Where is it now, the glory and the dream?
Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm,
And the babe leaps up on his mother’s arm:—
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:
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 comeFrom God, who is our home:Heaven lies about us in our infancy!Shades of the prison-house begin to closeUpon the growing Boy,But he beholds the light, and whence it flows,He sees it in his joy;The Youth, who daily further from the eastMust travel, still is Nature’s priest,And by the vision splendidIs on his way attended;At length the man perceives it die away,And fade into the light of common day.
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;
The Youth, who daily further from the east
Must travel, still is Nature’s priest,
And by the vision splendid
Is on his way attended;
At length the man perceives it die away,
And fade into the light of common day.
William Wordsworth.
(This is only a portion of the poem, which later you should take an opportunity of reading as a whole.)