'----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?' II. 150. ---------- 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 benedictions: not indeed For that which is most worthy to be blest: Delight and liberty, the simple creed Of childhood, whether fluttering or at rest, With new-born hope forever 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 realiz'd, High instincts, before which our mortal nature Did tremble like a guilty thing surpriz'd: 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 feeling Uphold us, cherish us, and 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! Hence, in a season of calm weather, Though inland far we be, Our souls have sight of that immortal sea Which brought us hither, Can in a moment travel thither, And see the children sport upon the shore, And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.' II. 154-6.