Such as can see,
Why should they doubt?  The childhood of a race. 
The childhood of a soul, hath neither doubt
Nor fear.  Where all is super-natural
The guileless heart doth feed on it, no more
Afraid than angels are of heaven.

Who saith
Another life, the next one shall not have
Another childhood growing gently thus,
Able to bear the poignant sweetness, take
The rich long awful measure of its peace,
Endure the presence sublime.

I saw
Once in that earth primeval, once—­a face,
A little face that yet I dream upon.’

‘Of this world was it?’
                         ’Not of this world—­no,
In the beginning—­for methinks it was
In the beginning but an if you ask
How long ago, time was not then, nor date
For marking.  It was always long ago,
E’en from the first recalling of it, long
And long ago.

And I could walk, and went,
Led by the hand through a long mead at morn,
Bathed in a ravishing excess of light. 
It throbbed, and as it were fresh fallen from heaven,
Sank deep into the meadow grass.  The sun
Gave every blade a bright and a dark side,
Glitter’d on buttercups that topped them, slipped
To soft red puffs, by some called holy-hay. 
The wide oaks in their early green stood still
And took delight in it.  Brown specks that made
Very sweet noises quivered in the blue;
Then they came down and ran along the brink
Of a long pool, and they were birds.

The pool
Pranked at the edges with pale peppermint,
A rare amassment of veined cuckoo flowers
And flags blue-green was lying below.  This all
Was sight it condescended not to words
Till memory kissed the charmed dream.

The mead
Hollowing and heaving, in the hollows fair
With dropping roses fell away to it,
A strange sweet place; upon its further side
Some people gently walking took their way
Up to a wood beyond; and also bells
Sang, floated in the air, hummed—­what you will.’

‘Then it was Sunday?’
                       ’Sunday was not yet;
It was a holiday, for all the days
Were holy.  It was not our day of rest
(The earth for all her rolling asks not rest,
For she was never weary).

It was sweet,
Full of dear leisure and perennial peace,
As very old days when life went easily,
Before mankind had lost the wise, the good
Habit of being happy.

For the pool
A beauteous place it was as might be seen,
That led one down to other meads, and had
Clouds and another sky.  I thought to go
Deep down in it, and walk that steep clear slope.