[Written at Town-end, Grasmere.]

WHAT way does the Wind come? What way does he go? He rides over the water, and over the snow,

Through wood, and through vale; and, o'er rocky height
Which the goat cannot climb, takes his sounding flight;
He tosses about in every bare tree,

As, if you look up, you plainly may see;
But how he will come, and whither he goes,
There's never a scholar in England knows.

He will suddenly stop in a cunning nook,
And ring a sharp 'larum ;-but, if you should look,
There's nothing to see but a cushion of snow
Round as a pillow, and whiter than milk,
And softer than if it were covered with silk.
Sometimes he'll hide in the cave of a rock,
Then whistle as shrill as the buzzard cock;

Yet seek him,-and what shall you find in the place? Nothing but silence and empty space;

Save, in a corner, a heap of dry leaves,

That he's left, for a bed, to beggars or thieves!

As soon as 'tis daylight to-morrow, with me
You shall go to the orchard, and then you will see
That he has been there, and made a great rout,
And cracked the branches, and strewn them about;

Heaven grant that he spare but that one upright twig
That looked up at the sky so proud and big

All last summer, as well you know,

Studded with apples, a beautiful show!

Hark! over the roof he makes a pause,

And growls as if he would fix his claws
Right in the slates, and with a huge rattle
Drive them down, like men in a battle:

-But let him range round; he does us no harm,
We build up the fire, we're snug and warm;

Untouched by his breath, see the candle shines bright,
And burns with a clear and steady light;

Books have we to read, but that half-stifled knell,
Alas! 'tis the sound of the eight o'clock bell.1
-Come now we'll to bed! and when we are there

He may work his own will,
He may knock at the door,
May drive at the windows,
Let him seek his own home

and what shall we care?
we'll not let him in;
we'll laugh at his din;
wherever it be ;

Here's a cozie warm house for Edward and me.

Wordsworth dated this poem 1806, and said to Miss Fenwick that it was written at Grasmere. If it was written "during a boisterous winter evening" in 1806, it could not have been written at Grasmere, because the Wordsworths spent that winter at Coleorton. I suspect this date is wrong, and that the poem really belongs to the year 1805; but as it is just possible that, although referring to winter, it may have been written at Town-end in the summer of 1806, and is therefore placed amongst the poems belonging to the latter year.

In all the editions, from 1815 to 1849, this Address was placed amongst the "Poems referring to the period of Childhood." From 1815 to 1842 the authorship was veiled, under the title, "by a female friend of the author." In 1845 it was disclosed, "by my Sister."-ED.

ODE.

INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY FROM RECOLLECTIONS OF

EARLY CHILDHOOD.

Comp. 1803-6

Pub. 1807.

[This was composed during my residence at Town-end, Grasmere. Two years at least passed between the writing of the four first stanzas and the remaining part. To the attentive and competent reader the whole sufficiently explains itself; but there may be no harm in adverting here to particular feelings or experiences of my own mind on which the structure of the poem partly rests. Nothing was more difficult for me in childhood than to admit the notion of death as a state applicable to my own being. I have said elsewhere

"A simple child,

That lightly draws its breath,
And feels its life in every limb,

What should it know of death!"—

But it was not so much from feelings of animal vivacity that my difficulty came as from a sense of the indomitableness of the Spirit within me. I used to brood over the stories of Enoch and Elijah, and almost to persuade myself that, whatever might become of others, I should be translated, in something of the same way, to heaven. With a feeling congenial to this, I was often unable to think of external things as having external existence, and I communed with all that I saw as something not apart from, but inherent in, my own immaterial nature. Many times while going to school have I grasped at a wall or tree to recall myself from this abyss of idealism to the reality. At that time I was afraid of such processes. In later periods of life I have deplored, as we have all reason to do, a subjugation of an opposite character, and have rejoiced over the remembrances, as is expressed in the lines"Obstinate questionings

Of sense and outward things,

Fallings from us, vanishings," &c.

To that dream-like vividness and splendour which invest objects of sight in childhood, every one, I believe, if he would look back, could bear testimony, and I need not dwell upon it here; but having in the poem regarded it as presumptive evidence of a prior state of existence, I think it right to protest against a conclusion, which has given pain to some good and pious persons, that I meant to inculcate such a belief. It is far too shadowy a notion to be recommended to faith, as more than an element in our instincts of immortality. But let us bear in mind that, though the idea is not advanced in revelation, there is nothing there to contradict it, and the fall of man presents an analogy

in its favour. Accordingly, a pre-existent state has entered into the popular creeds of many nations; and, among all persons acquainted with classic literature, is known as an ingredient in Platonic philosophy. Archimedes said that he could move the world if he had a point whereon to rest his machine. Who has not felt the same aspirations as regards the world of his own mind? Having to wield some of its elements when I was impelled to write this poem on the "Immortality of the Soul," I took hold of the notion of pre-existence as having sufficient foundation in humanity for authorizing me to make for my purpose the best use of it I could as a poet.]

The Child is father of the Man;

And I could wish my days to be

Bound each to each by natural piety.
(See vol. II. p. 260.)

I.

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 ;

_1

Turn whereso'er I may,

By night or day,

The things which I have seen I now can see no more.

II.

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 passed away a glory from the earth.

1 1820.

as it has been

1807.

III.

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!

IV.

Ye blessed Creatures, I have heard the call

Ye to each other make; I see

The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee;
My heart is at your festival,

My head hath its coronal,

The fulness of your bliss, I feel-I feel it all.
Oh evil day! if I were sullen
While Earth herself is adorning,1

This sweet May-morning,

And the Children are culling 2