Ode: Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood

William Wordsworth’s “Ode: Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood” was first published in his 1807 collection Poems, in Two Volumes, where it is titled simply “Ode” and has the Latin words Paulo maiora canamus (“Let us sing of higher things”) as an epigraph. In 1815, Wordsworth made slight revisions and gave the poem a subtitle and a new epigraph. He wrote the first four stanzas in 1802 and completed the other seven in 1804. The latter part of the poem expounds the personal sentiments and musings of the former part into a more general exploration of changes that transpire as one moves from childhood into adulthood. Specifically, the poem explores the growth of a more worldly and pragmatic outlook which causes the loss of the ability to perceive the holiness of nature and life.

The purpose of an ode as a poetic genre is to celebrate and praise a person, an event, an idea, or an abstract entity. Wordsworth’s “Ode” celebrates the idea that, even in adulthood, one can preserve a trace of the child’s blissful experience of life, which serves as the core of the mature mindset of tranquility and fortitude. It is among Wordsworth’s best-known and most frequently quoted poems; it is considered one of the greatest odes of the Romantic period (1780s-1830s); and it is a prime example of the Romantic emphasis on interrelated values of childhood and nature.

Poet Biography

William Wordsworth was born in 1770 at the outskirts of the Lake District—an area of great natural beauty in northwestern England, which he adored and celebrated in his poetry. He spent much of his childhood roaming the hills and meadows, collecting experiences and memories that inspired his poetry. By the time Wordsworth was 13, both his parents had died, so he and his four siblings spent the rest of their childhood as boarders in a neighboring cottage. After his graduation from the University of Cambridge in 1791, Wordsworth spent a year in France, where he fell in love with both the principles of the French Revolution and a Frenchwoman, with whom he had a daughter. Their marriage plans were disrupted by war and political turmoil and Wordsworth returned to England alone to cope with the sense of guilt and failure that led to an emotional breakdown.

Wordsworth’s mental health and poetic career began improving in 1795, when he decided to share a home with his sister Dorothy—a talented writer. He befriended another poet of similar sensibility, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, and their collaboration led to the 1798 publication of Lyrical Ballads: one of the most influential poetry collections in all English Literature. It is in his preface to a later edition of that text that Wordsworth famously defined poetry as “spontaneous overflow of powerful emotions recollected in tranquility.” Therefore, he believed that both feelings and contemplation are necessary for poetic creativity.

After he and his sister moved back to the Lake District in 1799—and upon coming into a delayed inheritance and reaching an amicable agreement with the mother of his first child—Wordsworth married a woman he had known since childhood. His family life, however, was marred with the untimely deaths of a brother and a child, as well as Dorothy’s physical and mental illness.

Nevertheless, his prosperity and fame grew, especially after the publication of Poems, in Two Volumes in 1807. Much of his greatest poetry was written by that time, with the major exception of The Prelude, or Growth of a Poet’s Mind, a long autobiographical poem which he mostly wrote between 1799 and 1805 but continued to revise for the next 35 years. The final version was published in 1850, the year of his death. By then, Wordsworth had become a national treasure. In 1843, he was declared Poet Laureate of Great Britain: the supreme official honor for a British poet.

Poem Text

The child is father of the man;

And I could wish my days to be

Bound each to each by natural piety.

         (Wordsworth, "My Heart Leaps Up")

1

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;—

                     Turn wheresoe'er I may,

                         By night or day.

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

2

                     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 past away a glory from the earth.

3

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.

4

Ye blessèd 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,

                        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?

5

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:

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.

6

Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own;

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.

7

Behold the Child among his new-born blisses,                               

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-learnèd 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.

8

Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie

                     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!

9 

                    O joy! that in our embers

                     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.

10

Then sing, ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous song!

                     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.

11

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.

William Wordsworth. “Ode: Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early

Childhood.” 1807. Poetry Foundation.

Summary

“Ode: Intimations of Immortality” consists of 11 stanzas; the first four were written about two years before the other five. The poem is unified in its themes and emotions, although the earlier stanzas are more confessional in nature whereas the later ones offer a broader reflection on the sentiments initially expressed.

The poem opens with the speaker acknowledging a sense of loss: Once upon a time, everything around him seemed fresh and magnificent, but now, much as he tries, he cannot recover that sensation (Stanza 1). He is still able to observe the manifold beauty of nature, but the earth has lost its original radiance (Stanza 2). Now, even in idyllic rural surroundings, he feels grief, though “a timely utterance” (Line 23)—possibly a poem—makes him strong again and alert to various sights and sounds of spring such as animals and a happy Shepherd-boy rejoicing in nature’s glory (Stanza 3). He addresses these “blessed creatures” (Line 36) to tell them that he sympathizes with their joy, and he knows it is wrong to be gloomy on such a day. He feels the warmth and love flowing from “a thousand valleys” (Line 47), yet there is one single tree and a specific field that “speak of something that is gone” (Line 53), so he reverts to sorrow over the precious “visionary gleam” (Line 56) he once possessed, though it seems irrevocably lost (Stanza 4).

The part of the poem written two years later begins with a more abstract statement about human “birth” being “a sleep and a forgetting” (Line 58) because the newborn’s soul comes “from God, who is our home” (Line 65)—a realm the soul can no longer remember after the child’s birth. Still, the soul arrives “[n]ot in entire forgetfulness” (Line 62) of that realm, which is why “Heaven lies about us in our infancy” (Line 66). However, that “vision splendid” (Line 73) gradually fades as the infant develops into a boy, then a youth, and finally an adult (Stanza 5). Earthly life offers worthy pleasures of its own, but they make adults “[f]orget the glories” (Line 83) they knew as children (Stanza 6). The speaker describes how the child learns about life through play and observation; his interests constantly change from human rituals like weddings and funerals (Lines 93-94) to “dialogues of business, love, or strife” (Line 98), to old age (Line 104). His life will imitate the lives of others around him (Stanza 7).

At this point, the speaker directly addresses the child to praise his “[s]oul’s immensity” (Line 109). The child’s “[i]mmortality” (Line 118)—his soul’s original connection with Heaven—is still around him, so the speaker wonders why the child is so eager to replace his “heaven-born freedom” (Line 122) with “the inevitable yoke” (Line 124) of earthly customs and concerns (Stanza 8). The speaker moves on to praise and bless that remnant of original glory persisting into adulthood. He is thankful for spiritual “high instincts” (Line 146) and “shadowy recollections” (Line 149), hinting at the existence of that which transcends mortal life. They are the “master-light of all our seeing” (Line 152), guiding humans to truths that nothing, not even “the eternal Silence” (Line 155) of death can destroy (Stanza 9). Since that is so, adults can—at least “in thought” (Line 171)—join those (animals and children) who joyfully celebrate the beauty and freshness of nature and life. Adults cannot retrieve the original glory of childhood, but something of that “primal sympathy” (Line 181) is still with them; it helps them develop “the philosophical mind” (Line 186) and maintain their faith in the face of inevitable death (Stanza 10). In the final stanza, the speaker declares that in his “heart of hearts” (Line 189) he still feels nature’s might and loves its beauty even more, though now it has a more “sober colouring” (Line 197) than when he was a child. The poem ends with the speaker’s assertion that, due to the tenderness of the human heart, even “the meanest flower” (Line 202) can evoke in him profound thoughts that will keep his sorrow at bay (Stanza 11).