Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave īroods like the Day, a Master o'er a Slave, Which we are toiling all our lives to find, That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep, Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie That Life brings with her in her equipage With all the Persons, down to palsied Age, To dialogues of business, love, or strife įilling from time to time his "humorous stage" Shaped by himself with newly-learned art Some fragment from his dream of human life, See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, With light upon him from his father's eyes! See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies,įretted by sallies of his mother's kisses, To make her Foster-child, her Inmate Man,īehold the Child among his new-born blisses, Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind,Īnd, even with something of a Mother's mind, The Youth, who daily farther from the eastĮarth fills her lap with pleasures of her own Shades of the prison-house begin to closeīut He beholds the light, and whence it flows, The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star,
Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting: Where is it now, the glory and the dream? The fulness of your bliss, I feel-I feel it all.įresh flowers while the sun shines warm,Īnd the Babe leaps up on his Mother's arm:-īoth of them speak of something that is gone: The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee Ye blessed Creatures, I have heard the call Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy The Winds come to me from the fields of sleep, I hear the Echoes through the mountains throng, No more shall grief of mine the season wrong The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep To me alone there came a thought of grief:Ī timely utterance gave that thought relief, Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song, That there hath past away a glory from the earth. Look round her when the heavens are bare, The things which I have seen I now can see no more. THERE was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, William Wordsworth, "Ode: Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood" For links to her work online, reviews, and more biographical information, click here. She is poetry editor of The Baffler, contributing editor of The Poker, and advisor to The Modern Review. Her translation of the French poet Jacqueline Risset's 1976 book The Translation Begins was published by Burning Deck in 1996.
Moxleyis the author of three books of poetry: Often Capital (Flood 2005), The Sense Record (Edge 2002 Salt 2003), and Imagination Verses (Tender Buttons 1996 Salt 2003). In this installment, Jennifer Moxley reads “Ode: Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood” by William Wordsworth.
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