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

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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 feetDoth 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,
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