WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
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
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