The unremitting voice of nightly streams That wastes so oft, we think, its tuneful powers, If neither soothing to the worm that gleams Through dewy grass, nor small birds hushed in bowers, Nor unto silent leaves and drowsy flowers,-- 5 That voice of unpretending harmony (For who what is shall measure by what seems To be, or not to be,[309] Or tax high Heaven with prodigality?) Wants not a healing influence that can creep 10 Into the human breast, and mix with sleep To regulate the motion of our dreams For kindly issues--as through every clime Was felt near murmuring brooks in earliest time; As at this day, the rudest swains who dwell 15 Where torrents roar, or hear the tinkling knell Of water-breaks, with grateful heart could tell. [309] _Hamlet_, act III. scene i. l. 56.--ED. “HOW BEAUTIFUL THE QUEEN OF NIGHT, ON HIGH” Composed 1846.--Published 1850 One of the “Miscellaneous Poems.”--ED. How beautiful the Queen of Night, on high Her way pursuing among scattered clouds, Where, ever and anon, her head she shrouds Hidden from view in dense obscurity. But look, and to the watchful eye A brightening edge will indicate that soon We shall behold the struggling Moon Break forth,--again to walk the clear blue sky. ON THE BANKS OF A ROCKY STREAM Composed 1846.--Published 1850 Behold an emblem of our human mind Crowded with thoughts that need a settled home Yet, like to eddying balls of foam Within this whirlpool, they each other chase Round and round, and neither find An outlet nor a resting-place! Stranger, if such disquietude be thine, Fall on thy knees and sue for help divine. ODE INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY FROM RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY CHILDHOOD Composed 1803-6.--Published 1807 [This was composed during my residence at Town-end, Grasmere. Two years at least passed between the writing of the four first stanzas and the remaining part. To the attentive and competent reader the whole sufficiently explains itself; but there may be no harm in adverting here to particular feelings or _experiences_ of my own mind on which the structure of the poem partly rests. Nothing was more difficult for me in childhood than to admit the notion of death as a state applicable to my own being. I have said elsewhere-- A simple child, That lightly draws its breath, And feels its life in every limb, What should it know of death!--