Book 2 — FROST AT MIDNIGHT[240:1]

The Frost performs its secret ministry, Unhelped by any wind. The owlet's cry Came loud—and hark, again! loud as before. The inmates of my cottage, all at rest, Have left me to that solitude, which suits 5 Abstruser musings: save that at my side My cradled infant slumbers peacefully. 'Tis calm indeed! so calm that it disturbs And vexes meditation with its strange And extreme silentness. Sea, hill, and wood, 10 This populous village! Sea, and hill, and wood, With all the numberless goings-on of life, Inaudible as dreams! the thin blue flame Lies on my low-burnt fire, and quivers not; Only that film,[240:2] which fluttered on the grate, 15 Still flutters there, the sole unquiet thing. Methinks, its motion in this hush of nature Gives it dim sympathies with me who live, Making it a companionable form, Whose puny flaps and freaks the idling Spirit 20 [241]By its own moods interprets, every where Echo or mirror seeking of itself, And makes a toy of Thought. But O! how oft, How oft, at school, with most believing mind, Presageful, have I gazed upon the bars, 25 To watch that fluttering stranger! and as oft With unclosed lids, already had I dreamt Of my sweet birth-place, and the old church-tower, Whose bells, the poor man's only music, rang From morn to evening, all the hot Fair-day, 30 So sweetly, that they stirred and haunted me With a wild pleasure, falling on mine ear Most like articulate sounds of things to come! So gazed I, till the soothing things, I dreamt, Lulled me to sleep, and sleep prolonged my dreams! 35 And so I brooded all the following morn, Awed by the stern preceptor's face, mine eye Fixed with mock study on my swimming book: Save if the door half opened, and I snatched A hasty glance, and still my heart leaped up, 40 [242]For still I hoped to see the stranger's face, Townsman, or aunt, or sister more beloved, My play-mate when we both were clothed alike! Dear Babe, that sleepest cradled by my side, Whose gentle breathings, heard in this deep calm, 45 Fill up the intersperséd vacancies And momentary pauses of the thought! My babe so beautiful! it thrills my heart With tender gladness, thus to look at thee, And think that thou shalt learn far other lore, 50 And in far other scenes! For I was reared In the great city, pent 'mid cloisters dim, And saw nought lovely but the sky and stars. But thou, my babe! shalt wander like a breeze By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the crags 55 Of ancient mountain, and beneath the clouds, Which image in their bulk both lakes and shores And mountain crags: so shalt thou see and hear The lovely shapes and sounds intelligible Of that eternal language, which thy God 60 Utters, who from eternity doth teach Himself in all, and all things in himself. Great universal Teacher! he shall mould Thy spirit, and by giving make it ask. Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee, 65 Whether the summer clothe the general earth With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch Of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatch Smokes in the sun-thaw; whether the eave-drops fall 70 Heard only in the trances of the blast, Or if the secret ministry of frost Shall hang them up in silent icicles, Quietly shining to the quiet Moon.

With which I can hold commune. Idle thought! But still the living spirit in our frame, That loves not to behold a lifeless thing, Transfuses into all its own delights, Its own volition, sometimes with deep faith And sometimes with fantastic playfulness. Ah me! amus'd by no such curious toys Of the self-watching subtilizing mind, How often in my early school-boy days With most believing superstitious wish.

With which I can hold commune: haply hence, That still the living spirit in our frame, Which loves not to behold a lifeless thing, Transfuses into all things its own Will, And its own pleasures; sometimes with deep faith, And sometimes with a wilful playfulness That stealing pardon from our common sense Smiles, as self-scornful, to disarm the scorn For these wild reliques of our childish Thought, That flit about, oft go, and oft return Not uninvited. Ah there was a time, When oft amused by no such subtle toys Of the self-watching mind, a child at school, With most believing superstitious wish.

To which the living spirit in our frame, That loves not to behold a lifeless thing, Transfuses its own pleasures, its own will.

Or whether the secret ministery of cold Shall hang them up in silent icicles, Quietly shining to the quiet moon, Like those, my babe! which ere tomorrow's warmth Have capp'd their sharp keen points with pendulous drops, Will catch thine eye, and with their novelty Suspend thy little soul; then make thee shout, And stretch and flutter from thy mother's arms As thou wouldst fly for very eagerness.