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Gipsies
Beggars
Sequel to the Foregoing
Ruth
Laodamia
Her eyes are wild, her head is bare

234 Resolution and Independence The Thorn .

241 Hartleap Well. Song at the Feast of Brougham Castle :

255 The Echo To a Skylark. It is no spirit who from heaven haih towa :

261 The Pass of Kirkstone. Evening Ode.

Lines written a few Miles above Tintern Abbey
POEMS OF THE FANCY-
A Morning Exercise

273 To the Daisy .

275 The Hailstorm The Green Linnet The Contrast To the small Celandine To the same Flower The Waterfall and the Eglant The Oak and the Broom

286 Song for the Spinning Wheel The Redbreast and Butterfly

290 The Kitten and the Falling Leav

291 To the Daisy

295 To the same Flower

297 To a Sexton .

298 The Seven Sisters; or The Solitude of Binnorie

299 A Fragment .

301 Pilgrim's Dream; The Star and the Glowworm

303 Stray Pleasures To my Infant Daughter

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WORDSWORTH'S POEMS.

ODE ON INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY

FROM RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY CHILDHOOD.

THERE was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, The earth, and every common sight,

To me did seem

Apparelled inacelestial 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 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 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 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.

Oh evil day! if I were sullen
While the earth itself is adorning,

This sweet May-morning,
And the children are pulling,

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 looked 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 ;
The youth, who daily farther 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.

Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own ; Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, And, even with something of a mother's mind,

And no unworthy aim,

The homely nurse doth all she can To make her foster-child, her inmate man,

Forget the glories he hath known, And that imperial palace whence he came.

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