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The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep; No more shall grief of mine the season wrong; I hear the Echoes through the mountains song, 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! -William Wordsworth (1770-1850), Ode: Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood |