Page:Poems, in two volumes (IA poemsintwovolume00word).pdf/162

 On every side, In a thousand vallies far and wide, Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm, And the Babe leaps up on his Mother's arm:— I hear, I hear, with joy I hear! —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?

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting: The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, Hath had elsewhere it's setting, And cometh from afar: Not in entire forgetfulness, And not in utter nakedness,