# Poems (Wordsworth, 1815)/Volume 1/Address to my Infant Daughter

XX.
ADDRESS
TO MY INFANT DAUGHTER,
On being reminded, that she was a Month old, on that Day.
———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; 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; 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."—Yet hail to Thee, ​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, 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 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, 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; 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! ​Even now, to solemnize thy helpless state, And to enliven in the mind's regard Thy passive beauty, parallels have risen, Resemblances or contrasts, that connect, Within the region of a Father's thoughts, Thee and thy Mate and Sister of the sky. And first;—thy sinless progress, through a world By sorrow darkened and by care disturbed, Apt likeness bears to hers through gathered clouds Moving untouched in silver purity, And cheering oft-times their reluctant gloom. Fair are ye both, and both are free from stain: But thou, how leisurely thou fill'st thy horn With brightness!—leaving her to post along, And range about—disquieted in change, And still impatient of the shape she wears. Once up, once down the hill, one journey, Babe, That will suffice thee; and it seems that now Thou hast fore-knowledge that such task is thine; Thou travell'st so contentedly, and sleep'st In such a heedless peace. Alas! full soon Hath this conception, grateful to behold, Changed countenance, like an object sullied o'er By breathing mist; and thine appears to be ​A mournful labour, while to her is given Hope—and a renovation without end. —That smile forbids the thought;—for on thy face Smiles are beginning, like the beams of dawn, To shoot and circulate;—smiles have there been seen,— Tranquil assurances that Heaven supports The feeble motions of thy life, and cheers Thy loneliness;—or shall those smiles be called Feelers of love,—put forth as if to explore This untried world, and to prepare thy way Through a strait passage intricate and dim? Such are they,—and the same are tokens, signs, Which, when the appointed season hath arrived, Joy, as her holiest language, shall adopt; And Reason's god-like Power be proud to own.