John Anderson, my jo, John, We clamb the hill thegither; And monie a canty[183] day, John, We've had wi' are anither: Now we maun totter down, John, But hand in hand we'll go, And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson, my jo. [Footnote 181: Sweetheart.] [Footnote 182: Smooth] [Footnote 183: Merry.] * * * * * WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. SONNET. The world is too much with us; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: Little we see in Nature that is ours; We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! This sea that bares her bosom to the moon; The winds that will be howling at all hours, And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers-- For this, for every thing, we are out of tune; It moves us not. Great God! I'd rather be A Pagan, suckled in a creed outworn, So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea, Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. THE PRE-EXISTENCE OF THE SOUL. [From Ode on the Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood.] 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....