A something to survive, Of you though it derive Apparent earthly birth, But of far other worth Than you, ye vague desires, Than you. _HIGH AND LOW._ The grasses green of sweet content That spring, no matter high or low, Where’er a living thing can grow, On chilly hills and rocky rent, And by the lowly streamlet’s side— Oh! why did e’er I turn from these?— The lordly, tall, umbrageous trees, That stand in high aspiring pride, With massive bulk on high sustain A world of boughs with leaf and fruits, And drive their wide-extending roots Deep down into the subject plain. Oh, what with these had I to do?— That germs of things above their kind May live, pent up and close confined In humbler forms, it may be true; Yet great is that which gives our lot; High laws and powers our will transcend And not for this, till time do end, Shall any be what he is not. Each in its place, as each was sent, Just nature ranges side by side; Alike the oak tree’s lofty pride And grasses green of sweet content. _ALL IS WELL._ Whate’er you dream with doubt possest, Keep, keep it snug within your breast, And lay you down and take your rest; Forget in sleep the doubt and pain, And when you wake, to work again. The wind it blows, the vessel goes, And where and whither, no one knows. ’Twill all be well: no need of care; Though how it will, and when, and where, We cannot see, and can’t declare. In spite of dreams, in spite of thought, ’Tis not in vain, and not for nought, The wind it blows, the ship it goes, Though where and whither, no one knows. _πάντα ῥεῖ· οὐδὲν μένει._ Upon the water, in the boat, I sit and sketch as down I float: The stream is wide, the view is fair, I sketch it looking backward there. The stream is strong, and as I sit And view the picture that we quit, It flows and flows, and bears the boat, And I sit sketching as we float. Each pointed height, each wavy line, To new and other forms combine; Proportions vary, colours fade, And all the landscape is remade. Depicted neither far nor near, And larger there and smaller here, And varying down from old to new, E’en I can hardly think it true. Yet still I look, and still I sit, Adjusting, shaping, altering it; And still the current bears the boat And me, still sketching as I float. Still as I sit, with something new The foreground intercepts my view; Even the distant mountain range From the first moment suffers change. _THE STREAM OF LIFE._ O stream descending to the sea, Thy mossy banks between, The flow’rets blow, the grasses grow, The leafy trees are green. In garden plots the children play, The fields the labourers till, And houses stand on either hand, And thou descendest still. O life descending into death, Our waking eyes behold, Parent and friend thy lapse attend, Companions young and old.