“from Recollections of Early Childhood“
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Wordsworth chose to begin Intimations with an epigraph1, a poem he had written previously and which beautifully expresses the themes of this poem:
My heart leaps up when I behold
A Rainbow in the sky:
So was it when my life began;
So is it now I am a man;
So be it when I shall grow old,
Or let me die!
The Child is father of the man;
And I wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.
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(The stanza numbering is my own just for the purposes of this post.)
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There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, (1)
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, (2)
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, (3)
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.
Ye blessèd creatures, I have heard the call (4)
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,
This sweet May-morning,
And the Children are culling
On every side,
In a thousand valleys 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 looked 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: (5)
The Soul that rises with us, our life’s Star,
Hath had elsewhere its setting,
And cometh from afar:
Not in entire forgetfulness,
And not in utter nakedness,
But trailing clouds of glory do we come
From God, who is our home:
Heaven lies about us in our infancy!
Shades of the prison-house begin to close
Upon the growing Boy,
But he beholds the light, and whence it flows,
He sees it in his joy;
The Youth, who daily farther from the east
Must travel, still is Nature’s Priest,
And by the vision splendid
Is on his way attended;
At length the Man perceives it die away,
And fade into the light of common day.
Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own; (6)
Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind,
And, even with something of a Mother’s mind,
And no unworthy aim,
The homely Nurse doth all she can
To make her Foster-child, her Inmate Man,
Forget the glories he hath known,
And that imperial palace whence he came.
Behold the Child among his new-born blisses, (7)
A six years’ Darling of a pigmy size!
See, where ‘mid work of his own hand he lies,
Fretted by sallies of his mother’s kisses,
With light upon him from his father’s eyes!
See, at his feet, some little plan or chart,
Some fragment from his dream of human life,
Shaped by himself with newly-learn{e}d art
A wedding or a festival,
A mourning or a funeral;
And this hath now his heart,
And unto this he frames his song:
Then will he fit his tongue
To dialogues of business, love, or strife;
But it will not be long
Ere this be thrown aside,
And with new joy and pride
The little Actor cons another part;
Filling from time to time his “humorous stage”
With all the Persons, down to palsied Age,
That Life brings with her in her equipage;
As if his whole vocation
Were endless imitation.
Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie (8)
Thy Soul’s immensity;
Thou best Philosopher, who yet dost keep
Thy heritage, thou Eye among the blind,
That, deaf and silent, read’st the eternal deep,
Haunted for ever by the eternal mind,—
Mighty Prophet! Seer blest!
On whom those truths do rest,
Which we are toiling all our lives to find,
In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave;
Thou, over whom thy Immortality
Broods like the Day, a Master o’er a Slave,
A Presence which is not to be put by;
Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might
Of heaven-born freedom on thy being’s height,
Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke
The years to bring the inevitable yoke,
Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife?
Full soon thy Soul shall have her earthly freight,
And custom lie upon thee with a weight,
Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life!
O joy! that in our embers (9)
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 realised,
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! (10)
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;
In the faith that looks through death,
In years that bring the philosophic mind.
And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves,
Forebode not any severing of our loves!
Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;
I only have relinquished one delight
To live beneath your more habitual sway.
I love the Brooks which down their channels fret,
Even more than when I tripped lightly as they;
The innocent brightness of a new-born Day
Is lovely yet;
The Clouds that gather round the setting sun
Do take a sober colouring from an eye
That hath kept watch o’er man’s mortality;
Another race hath been, and other palms are won.
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.
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In the first stanza, the first phrase of the first line sets the tone for the entire poem: There was a time, was indicating that the time is past. Throughout the poem, Wordsworth is concerned with the passing of time; with past, present and future; with childhood and adulthood; mortality and immortality; with new and old. The time that was for Wordsworth was his childhood, when all of nature (meadow, grove, stream, earth, and every common sight) seemed to be bathed (Apparelled) in a spiritual (celestial) light , with the glory and the freshness of a dream, wondrous to a boy. However, time passes–There was a time–and with it childhood wonder. As age accrues, it tarnishes what was new and fresh. It is not now as it hath been of yore. No matter how he searches (wheresoe’er, night or day), he no longer can see as he once did (I now can see no more)
Stanza (2) While there still is much beauty in the world–Rainbow, Rose, Moon, Waters, sunshine–the poet is aware that childhood’s freshness and newness and wonder have deteriorated with age (there hath past away a glory from the earth).
Stanza (30). While nature celebrates itself with leaping lambs and singing birds, a thought of grief briefly crossed his mind–an intimation of mortality, perhaps–but soon passed, and he is strong once more. (I again am strong). He won’t let his passing moments of sadness (grief) wrong the season. And nature again appears to him in all her glory: the cataracts‘ booming (trumpets); mountains’ echoing; the Winds‘ suggestiveness (fields of sleep). She is alive again. The earth is gay; land and sea are joyous (jollity). Each beast’s heart s is celebrating (holiday) Nature’s heart (the heart of May). And especially he hears the Shepherd-boy (Child of Joy) shouting in delight and sheer abandon to joy.
Stanza (40. The poet can hear the adored (blessed) creatures calling to each other and can see joy (laugh) reflected in the heavens at their celebrating (jubilee). The poet, too, shares in their celebration with his heart (my heart is at your festival), and with his head, crowned (coronel) with their bliss. I feel–I feel it all, stammering in his acknowledging.
It would be terrible (evil) of him to be glum (sullen) on a lovely (sweet) May morning, when Children everywhere (in a thousand valleys) are picking flowers (culling), and the sun shines warm, and babies bounce (leaps up) in their Mother’s arms. He again stammers from the force of feeling (I hear, I hear, with joy I hear!)
But
Haunting him is the vision of a lone (one) tree in a single field, symbols of loneliness, in personification2 speaking to him of something that is gone: Where is the transcendent (visionary) aura (gleam), that seemed to envelope everything when he was a child (apparelled in celestial light; line 4); Where now are the radiant glory and incandescent dream (The glory and the freshness of a dream., line 5)? Although there still is beauty in the world, there is a hollowness, as of something not there that used to be.
In the next few most famous stanzas (5-7), Wordsworth delineates the meaning of the poem’s title, the basis of which is: Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting. The soul is not born with the body; it pre-exists the body, which our consciousness forgets at birth. Our soul, our life’s Star, existed elsewhere and cometh from afar, not in entire forgetfulness and nakedness, though, But trailing clouds of glory do we come/From God, who is our home; we still have intimations of immortality. That is, though we do not remember the soul’s existence before the body’s birth, nonetheless it retains some of its glory in the essence of the child, so that heaven still lies about us in our infancy. However, the exposure to the material world (Shades of the prison-house, a harsh metaphor, indicating Wordsworth’s position) begin to enclose the growing Boy’s soul, and as he ages , the celestial light dims. But when he is young, he still beholds the light and its source (and whence it flows), He sees it in his joy. As a Youth, who each day travels farther from inspiration (the east), he still is Nature’s Priest,/ And by the vision splendid/ Is on his way attended. At length, though, common to us all, the Man witnesses the vision clouding (die away) and then fading altogether into the light of common day. The celestial light is extinguished.
Stanza (6). In partial compensation, Earth has pleasures of her own. Also, as a foster-mother, in trying to do what she thinks is best for her child, she attempts to distract with her pleasures so that he forgets the glories he hath known, rather than be tortured by partial memory of them.
In Stanza (7(, the poet invites us to see the Child in his infancy, still surrounded by his new-born blisses. See how, showered with his mother’s kisses and his father’s kind sight, he shapes /plans/charts(art) some scene (fragment) from his dream of human life, devoting his attention (heart, song, tongue) from one thing to another. But it will not be long before expressing himself, art, is thrown aside, in favor (new joy and pride) of artifice. Once again in harsh language Wordsworth rebukes the moral product of aging, as the little Actor–who has “learned” hypocrisy–employs pretense (cons another part) to fill his life’s stage , down to old (palsied) Age, with all the false roles (Persons) that Life contains (brings with her in her equipage), as if his whole working purpose (vocation)/Were endless pretense (imitation). There is a certain bitterness to these lines, as if Wordsworth’s daily experience with human hypocrisy has jaded him. See his poems, London 1802, The World Is Too Much with Us , among others: Poetry Foundation. It also helps explain his seeking refuge in nature: see Post, Lines Composed a Few Miles above Tintern Abbey.)
Stanza (8), in apostrophe3, is a paean 4 to Thou little Child , yet glorious in the might /Of heaven-born freedom on thy being’s height, recapitulating the poem’s major themes, and asking Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke/The years to bring the inevitable yoke,/Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife?, implying that there is choice involved in the loss of innocence, and to avoid that choice, the cost of which is: Full soon thy Soul shall have her earthly freight (mortality),/And custom (habit)lie upon thee with a weight,/Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life!
Stanza (9). Happily (O joy!), we retain some intimations of immortality, something still lives in the dying embers of our lives, thoughts of which bring the poet constant blessedness (benediction).Yet not for that Delight and liberty and hope does he raise/The song of thanks and praise. (his poetry), but rather for his obstinate questioning of the material world (sense and outward things), for that and for those first affections (initial love shown to us) and for our faint recollection of that love, which is the fountain-light of all our day,? /And …a master-light of all our seeing. The remembrance of these things from our early past have power to transform our noisy years with truths that never perish, can never be abolished or by our apathy (listlessness) or mad ambition (endeavor), by Man or Boy, or by the enemies of joy. Using analogy, the poet asserts that when remembering, it is as if, being in calm weather, even though we are somewhat removed (far inland), we still can see (have sight of) the life-giving immortal sea and can mentally travel to it and see Children playing along the shore and hear the eternal (evermore) roar of the waves (waters rolling).
Wordsworth begins the final stanza with a series of apostrophes: to Birds, to sing joyously; to Lambs to leap as if to drum music (tabor’s sound); and to pipes and to pipers play with the gladness of May. For although the once-bright radiance is gone (foe vevr taken from my sight), and we cannot retrieve the hoiur/Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower, we will grieve not. In an anaphoric5 series for emphasis beginning with the word In, Wordsworth lists the main strength we do have: humanity, in our eternal (must ever be), primal connection (sympathy) to the world; in the soothing thoughts of love and faith that spring/Out of human suffering; in the faith that supersedes even death; in the years that bring wisdom (philosophic mind). And in another apostrophe, he appeals to nature ( Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves) never to predict (forbode) any severing of our loves. In his heart of hearts, he still feels Nature’s (yur) power (might). He has lost (relinquished) complete understanding (delight)but gained instead a constant (habitual) protection (sway). He still can deeply love nature–Brooks, new-born Day, Clouds, the setting sun, even while conscious of mortality. Yes, he has aged, has lived another game (race), garnered different (other) rewards (palms), But thanks to the human heart which sustains us, Thanks to its kindness (tenderness), its sympathy for joys and for tears, observing the most ordinary (meanest) flower can inspire in him profound and transcendent thoughts . We never completely lose our ability to sense intimations of our immortality.
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- a quotation set at the beginning of a literary work or one of its divisions to suggest its theme ↩︎
- the attribution of a personal nature or human characteristics to something nonhuman, ↩︎
- a literary device where the speaker directly addresses an absent person, an abstract concept, or an inanimate object as if it were present and capable of responding ↩︎
- a song of praise or triumph.
↩︎ - a rhetorical device featuring the repetition of a word or phrase at the beginning of successive clauses, lines, or sentences to add rhythm, emphasis, and emotional impact ↩︎
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(Note: You can view most poems on the website, Poetry Foundation.)
(Note: My Poetry Recordings Playlist: At the very bottom of the post Is a recording. To view my entire playlist of poetry recordings, hover over “1/18” in the upper right corner, then click on ‘My Poetry Recordings Playlist:´and make selection.)
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