SIX YEARS OLD <br /> <br />O THOU! whose fancies from afar are brought; <br />Who of thy words dost make a mock apparel, <br />And fittest to unutterable thought <br />The breeze-like motion and the self-born carol; <br />Thou faery voyager! that dost float <br />In such clear water, that thy boat <br />May rather seem <br />To brood on air than on an earthly stream; <br />Suspended in a stream as clear as sky, <br />Where earth and heaven do make one imagery; <br />O blessed vision! happy child! <br />Thou art so exquisitely wild, <br />I think of thee with many fears <br />For what may be thy lot in future years. <br />I thought of times when Pain might be thy guest, <br />Lord of thy house and hospitality; <br />And Grief, uneasy lover! never rest <br />But when she sate within the touch of thee. <br />O too industrious folly! <br />O vain and causeless melancholy! <br />Nature will either end thee quite; <br />Or, lengthening out thy season of delight, <br />Preserve for thee, by individual right, <br />A young lamb's heart among the full-grown flocks. <br />What hast thou to do with sorrow, <br />Or the injuries of to-morrow? <br />Thou art a dew-drop, which the morn brings forth, <br />Ill fitted to sustain unkindly shocks, <br />Or to be trailed along the soiling earth; <br />A gem that glitters while it lives, <br />And no forewarning gives; <br />But, at the touch of wrong, without a strife <br />Slips in a moment out of life.<br /><br />William Wordsworth<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/to-h-c/
