No More Learning

When my hand has half-lifted the latch of the gate, MS. ]


[Variant 5:

1820.

. . . and . . . MS. ]


[Variant 6:

1827.

But the blessings, and comfort, and wealth that we had,
We slighted them all,--and our birth-right was lost.
1820 and MS.

But we traitorously gave the best friend that we had
For spiritless pelf--as we felt to our cost! MS. ]


[Variant 7:

1820.
When my sick crazy body had lain without sleep,
How cheering the sunshiny vale where I stood, MS. ]





* * * * *





ADDRESS TO MY INFANT DAUGHTER, DORA, [A]

ON BEING REMINDED THAT SHE WAS A MONTH OLD THAT DAY, SEPTEMBER 16


Composed September 16, 1804. --Published 1815


Included by Wordsworth among his "Poems of the Fancy. "--Ed.




--Hast thou then survived--
Mild Offspring of infirm humanity,
Meek Infant! among all forlornest things
The most forlorn--one life of that bright star,
The second glory of the Heavens? --Thou hast; 5
Already hast survived that great decay,
That transformation through the wide earth felt,
And by all nations. In that Being's sight
From whom the Race of human kind proceed,
A thousand years are but as yesterday; 10
And one day's narrow circuit is to Him
Not less capacious than a thousand years.
But what is time? What outward glory? neither
A measure is of Thee, whose claims extend
Through "heaven's eternal year. " [B]--Yet hail to Thee, 15
Frail, feeble, Monthling! --by that name, methinks,
Thy scanty breathing-time is portioned out
Not idly. --Hadst thou been of Indian birth,
Couched on a casual bed of moss and leaves,
And rudely canopied by leafy boughs, 20
Or to the churlish elements exposed
On the blank plains,--the coldness of the night,
Or the night's darkness, or its cheerful face
Of beauty, by the changing moon adorned,
Would, with imperious admonition, then 25
Have scored thine age, and punctually timed
Thine infant history, on the minds of those
Who might have wandered with thee. --Mother's love,
Nor less than mother's love in other breasts,
Will, among us warm-clad and warmly housed, 30
Do for thee what the finger of the heavens
Doth all too often harshly execute
For thy unblest coevals, amid wilds
Where fancy hath small liberty to grace
The affections, to exalt them or refine; 35
And the maternal sympathy itself,
Though strong, is, in the main, a joyless tie
Of naked instinct, wound about the heart.
Happier, far happier is thy lot and ours!