Six Years Old O Thou! Whose Fancies From Afar Are Brought; Who Of Thy Words Dost Make A Mock Apparel, And Fittest To Unutterable Thought The Breeze-Like Motion And The Self-Born Carol; Thou Faery Voyager! That Dost Float In Such Clear Water, That Thy Boat May Rather Seem To Brood On Air Than On An Earthly Stream; Suspended In A Stream As Clear As Sky, Where Earth And Heaven Do Make One Imagery; O Blessed Vision! Happy Child! Thou Art So Exquisitely Wild, I Think Of Thee With Many Fears For What May Be Thy Lot In Future Years. I Thought Of Times When Pain Might Be Thy Guest, Lord Of Thy House And Hospitality; And Grief, Uneasy Lover! Never Rest But When She Sate Within The Touch Of Thee. O Too Industrious Folly! O Vain And Causeless Melancholy! Nature Will Either End Thee Quite; Or, Lengthening Out Thy Season Of Delight, Preserve For Thee, By Individual Right, A Young Lamb'S Heart Among The Full-Grown Flocks. What Hast Thou To Do With Sorrow, Or The Injuries Of To-Morrow? Thou Art A Dew-Drop, Which The Morn Brings Forth, Ill Fitted To Sustain Unkindly Shocks, Or To Be Trailed Along The Soiling Earth; A Gem That Glitters While It Lives, And No Forewarning Gives; But, At The Touch Of Wrong, Without A Strife Slips In A Moment Out Of Life.