Floating Fancies

“Floating Fancies”

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(William Wordsworth)


 An age hath been when Earth was proud

Of lustre too intense

To be sustained; and Mortals bowed

The front in self-defence.

Who ‘then’, if Dian’s crescent gleamed,

Or Cupid’s sparkling arrow streamed

While on the wing the Urchin played,

Could fearlessly approach the shade?

–Enough for one soft vernal day,

If I, a bard of ebbing time,

And nurtured in a fickle clime,

May haunt this horned bay;

Whose amorous water multiplies

The flitting halcyon’s vivid dyes;

And smooths her liquid breast–to show

These swan-like specks of mountain snow,

White as the pair that slid along the plains

Of heaven, when Venus held the reins!


In youth we love the darksome lawn

Brushed by the owlet’s wing;

Then, Twilight is preferred to Dawn,

And Autumn to the Spring.

Sad fancies do we then affect,

In luxury of disrespect

To our own prodigal excess

Of too familiar happiness.

Lycoris (if such name befit

Thee, thee my life’s celestial sign!)

When Nature marks the year’s decline,

Be ours to welcome it;

Pleased with the harvest hope that runs

Before the path of milder suns;

Pleased while the sylvan world displays

Its ripeness to the feeding gaze;

Pleased when the sullen winds resound the knell

Of the resplendent miracle.


But something whispers to my heart

That, as we downward tend,

Lycoris! life requires an ‘art’

To which our souls must bend;

A skill–to balance and supply;

And, ere the flowing fount be dry,

As soon it must, a sense to sip,

Or drink, with no fastidious lip.

Then welcome, above all, the Guest

Whose smiles, diffused o’er land and sea,

Seem to recall the Deity

Of youth into the breast:

May pensive Autumn ne’er present

A claim to her disparagement!

While blossoms and the budding spray

Inspire us in our own decay;

Still, as we nearer draw to life’s dark goal,

Be hopeful Spring the favourite of the Soul!


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