O joy! that in our embers |
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Is something that doth live, |
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That nature yet remembers |
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What was so fugitive! |
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The thought of our past years in me doth breed |
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Perpetual benediction: not indeed |
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For that which is most worthy to be blest?/font> |
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Delight and liberty, the simple creed |
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Of childhood, whether busy or at rest, |
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With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast:?/font> |
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Not for these I raise |
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The song of thanks and praise; |
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But for those obstinate questionings |
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Of sense and outward things, |
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Fallings from us, vanishings; |
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Blank misgivings of a Creature |
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Moving about in worlds not realized, |
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High instincts before which our mortal Nature |
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Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised: |
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But for those first affections, |
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Those shadowy recollections, |
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Which, be they what they may, |
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Are yet the fountain-light of all our day, |
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Are yet a master-light of all our seeing; |
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Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make |
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Our noisy years seem moments in the being |
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Of the eternal Silence: truths that wake, |
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To perish never: |
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Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour, |
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Nor Man nor Boy, |
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Nor all that is at enmity with joy, |
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Can utterly abolish or destroy! |
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Hence in a season of calm weather |
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Though inland far we be, |
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Our souls have sight of that immortal sea |
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Which brought us hither, |
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Can in a moment travel thither, |
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And see the children sport upon the shore, |
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And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. |
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