PARA A ZÉ

Ode on Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood William Wordsworth

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There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
The earth, and every common sight
To me did seem 
Apparelled in celestial light,
The glory and the freshness of a dream.
It is not now as it hath been of yore;
Turn wheresoe'er I may, 
By night or day,
The things which I have seen 
I now can see no more.
The rainbow comes and goes,
And lovely is the rose;
The moon doth with delight 
Look round her when the heavens are bare;
Waters on a starry night 
Are beautiful and fair;
The sunshine is a glorious birth;
But yet I know, where'er I go,
That there hath past away a glory from the earth.

Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song,
And while the young lambs bound
As to the tabor's sound,
To me alone there came a thought of grief:
A timely utterance gave that thought relief,
And I again am strong.
The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep,
No more shall grief of mine the season wrong:
I hear the echoes through the mountains throng.
The winds come to me from the fields of sleep,
And all the earth is gay; 
Land and sea
Give themselves up to jollity,
And with the heart of May 
Doth every beast keep holiday;
Thou child of joy,
Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts,thou happy
Shepherd-boy!
(...) 
But there's a tree, of many, one,
A single field which I have look'd upon,
Both of them speak of something that is gone: 
The pansy at my feet 
Doth the same tale repeat:
Whither is fled the visionary gleam?
Where is it now, the glory and the dream?

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

Then, sing, ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song! 
And let the young lambs bound 
As to the tabor's sound! 
We, in thought, will join your throng, 
Ye that pipe and ye that play, 
Ye that through your hearts to-day 
Feel the gladness of the May!
What though the radiance which was once so bright
Be now for ever taken from my sight, 
Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower; 
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind; 
In the primal sympathy
Which having been must ever be; 
In the soothing thoughts that spring 
Out of human suffering; 
the faith that looks through death,
In years that bring the philosophic mind.
(...)
Thanks to the human heart by which we live,
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,
To me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.