There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, 
The earth, and every common sight
 To me did seem
Apparelled 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 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 past 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 blesséd 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 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.

Behold the Child among his new-born blisses,
A six years' darling of a pigmy size!
See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies,
Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses,
With light upon him from his father's eyes!
See, at his feet, some little plan or chart,
Some fragment from his dream of human life,
Shaped by himself with newly-learned art;
A wedding or a festival, 
A mourning or a funeral;
 And this hath now his heart,
And unto this he frames his song:
 Then will he fit his tongue
To dialogues of business, love, or strife; 
But it will not be long 
Ere this be thrown aside, 
And with new joy and pride
The little actor cons another part;
Filling from time to time his 'humorous stage'
With all the Persons, down to palsied Age,
That life brings with her in her equipage; 
As if his whole vocation
Were endless imitation.

Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie 
Thy soul's immensity;
Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep
Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind,
That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep,
Haunted for ever by the eternal Mind,--
Mighty Prophet! Seer blest!
On whom those truths rest
Which we are toiling all our lives to find,
In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave;
Thou, over whom thy Immortality
Broods like the day, a master o'er a slave,
A Presence which is not to be put by; 
To whom the grave
Is but a lonely bed, without the sense of sight
Of day or the warm light,
A place of thoughts where we in waiting lie;
Thou little child, yet glorious in the might
Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height,
Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke
The ye