Poem – A Parsonage in Oxfordshire

Where holy ground begins, unhallowed ends,

Is marked by no distinguishable line;

The turf unites, the pathways intertwine;

And, wheresoe’er the stealing footstep tends,

Garden, and that domain where kindred, friends,

And neighbours rest together, here confound

Their several features, mingled like the sound

Of many waters, or as evening blends

With shady night. Soft airs, from shrub and flower,

Waft fragrant greetings to each silent grave; 

And while those lofty poplars gently wave

Their tops, between them comes and goes a sky

Bright as the glimpses of eternity,

To saints accorded in their mortal hour. 

Poem – A Night Thought

Lo! where the Moon along the sky
Sails with her happy destiny;

Oft is she hid from mortal eye

Or dimly seen,

But when the clouds asunder fly

How bright her mien!
Far different we–a froward race,

Thousands though rich in Fortune’s grace

With cherished sullenness of pace

Their way pursue, 

Ingrates who wear a smileless face

The whole year through.
If kindred humours e’er would make

My spirit droop for drooping’s sake,

From Fancy following in thy wake,

Bright ship of heaven!

A counter impulse let me take

And be forgiven. 

Poem – London 1802

Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour;
England hath need of thee: she is a fen

Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen,

Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,

Have forfeited their ancient English dower

Of inward happiness. We are selfish men;

Oh! raise us up, return to us again;

And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.

Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart;

Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea:

Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free,

So didst thou travel on life’s common way,

In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart

The lowliest duties on herself did lay. 

Poem – Lines Written in Early Spring

I HEARD a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sate reclined,

In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts

Bring sad thoughts to the mind.
To her fair works did Nature link

The human soul that through me ran;

And much it grieved my heart to think

What man has made of man.
Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,

The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;

And ’tis my faith that every flower

Enjoys the air it breathes.
The birds around me hopped and played,

Their thoughts I cannot measure:—

But the least motion which they made,

It seemed a thrill of pleasure.
The budding twigs spread out their fan,

To catch the breezy air;

And I must think, do all I can,

That there was pleasure there.
If this belief from heaven be sent,

If such be Nature’s holy plan,

Have I not reason to lament

What man has made of man? 

Poem – It is not to be Thought of

. It is not to be thought of that the Flood 
Of British freedom, which, to the open sea

Of the world’s praise, from dark antiquity

Hath flowed, “with pomp of waters, unwithstood,”

Roused though it be full often to a mood

Which spurns the check of salutary bands,

That this most famous Stream in bogs and sands

Should perish; and to evil and to good

Be lost for ever. In our halls is hung

Armoury of the invincible Knights of old:

We must be free or die, who speak the tongue

That Shakespeare spake; the faith and morals hold

Which Milton held.–In every thing we are sprung

Of Earth’s first blood, have titles manifold. 

Poem – It is a Beauteous Evening

It is a beauteous evening, calm and free, 
The holy time is quiet as a nun 

Breathless with adoration; the broad sun 

Is sinking down in its tranquility; 

The gentleness of heaven broods o’er the sea: 

Listen! the mighty Being is awake, 

And doth with his eternal motion make 

A sound like thunder – everlastingly. 

Dear Child! dear Girl! that walkest with me here, 

If thou appear untouched by solemn thought, 

Thy nature is not therefore less divine: 

Thou liest in Abraham’s bosom all the year, 

And worship’st at the Temple’s inner shrine, 

God being with thee when we know it not. 

Poem – In Due Observance of an Ancient Rite

IN due observance of an ancient rite,
The rude Biscayans, when their children lie

Dead in the sinless time of infancy,

Attire the peaceful corse in vestments white;

And, in like sign of cloudless triumph bright,

They bind the unoffending creature’s brows

With happy garlands of the pure white rose:

Then do a festal company unite

In choral song; and, while the uplifted cross

Of Jesus goes before, the child is borne 

Uncovered to his grave: ’tis closed,–her loss

The Mother ‘then’ mourns, as she needs must mourn;

But soon, through Christian faith, is grief subdued;

And joy returns, to brighten fortitude. 

Poem – Three Years She Grew in Sun and Shower

Three years she grew in sun and shower,
Then Nature said, “A lovelier flower

On earth was never sown;

This Child I to myself will take;

She shall be mine, and I will make

A Lady of my own.
“Myself will to my darling be

Both law and impulse: and with me

The Girl, in rock and plain

In earth and heaven, in glade and bower,

Shall feel an overseeing power

To kindle or restrain.
“She shall be sportive as the fawn

That wild with glee across the lawn

Or up the mountain springs;

And her’s shall be the breathing balm,

And her’s the silence and the calm

Of mute insensate things.
“The floating clouds their state shall lend

To her; for her the willow bend;

Nor shall she fail to see

Even in the motions of the Storm

Grace that shall mold the Maiden’s form

By silent sympathy.
“The stars of midnight shall be dear

To her; and she shall lean her ear

In many a secret place

Where rivulets dance their wayward round,

And beauty born of murmuring sound

Shall pass into her face.
“And vital feelings of delight

Shall rear her form to stately height,

Her virgin bosom swell;

Such thoughts to Lucy I will give

While she and I together live

Here in this happy dell.”
Thus Nature spake—The work was done—

How soon my Lucy’s race was run!

She died, and left to me

This heath, this calm, and quiet scene;

The memory of what has been,

And never more will be. 

Poem – There was a Boy

There was a Boy; ye knew him well, ye cliffs 
And islands of Winander!–many a time, 

At evening, when the earliest stars began 

To move along the edges of the hills, 

Rising or setting, would he stand alone, 

Beneath the trees, or by the glimmering lake; 

And there, with fingers interwoven, both hands 

Pressed closely palm to palm and to his mouth 

Uplifted, he, as through an instrument, 

Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls, 

That they might answer him.–And they would shout 

Across the watery vale, and shout again, 

Responsive to his call,–with quivering peals, 

And long halloos, and screams, and echoes loud 

Redoubled and redoubled; concourse wild 

Of jocund din! And, when there came a pause 

Of silence such as baffled his best skill: 

Then, sometimes, in that silence, while he hung 

Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprise 

Has carried far into his heart the voice 

Of mountain-torrents; or the visible scene 

Would enter unawares into his mind 

With all its solemn imagery, its rocks, 

Its woods, and that uncertain heaven received 

Into the bosom of the steady lake. 

This boy was taken from his mates, and died 

In childhood, ere he was full twelve years old. 

Pre-eminent in beauty is the vale 

Where he was born and bred: the churchyard hangs 

Upon a slope above the village-school; 

And, through that church-yard when my way has led 

On summer-evenings, I believe, that there 

A long half-hour together I have stood 

Mute–looking at the grave in which he lies! 

Poem – The Wishing Gate

[In the vale of Grasmere, by the side of an old highway leading to Ambleside, is a gate, which, from time out of 

mind, has been called the Wishing-gate, from a belief that 

wishes formed or indulged there have a favorable issue.]
HOPE rules a land forever green:

All powers that serve the bright-eyed Queen

Are confident and gay;

Clouds at her bidding disappear;

Points she to aught?—the bliss draws near,

And Fancy smooths the way.
Not such the land of Wishes—there

Dwell fruitless day-dreams, lawless prayer,

And thoughts with things at strife;

Yet how forlorn, should ye depart

Ye superstitions of the heart,

How poor, were human life!
When magic lore abjured its might,

Ye did not forfeit one dear right,

One tender claim abate;

Witness this symbol of your sway,

Surnving near the public way,

The rustic Wishing-gate!
Inquire not if the faery race

Shed kindly influence on the place,

Ere northward they retired;

If here a warrior left a spell,

Panting for glory as he fell;

Or here a saint expired.
Enough that all arouud is fair,

Composed with Nature’s finest care,

And in her fondest love—

Peace to embosom and content—

To overawe the turbulent,

The selfish to reprove.
Yea! even the Stranger from afar,

Reclining on this moss-grown bar,

Unknowing, and unknown,

The infection of the ground partakes,

Longing for his Beloved—who maker

All happiness her own.
Then why should conscious Spirits fear

The mystic stirrings that are here,

The ancient faith disclaim?

The local Genius ne’er befriends

Desires whose course in folly ends,

Whose just reward is shame.
Smile if thou wilt, but not in scorn,

If some, by ceaseless pains outworn,

Here crave an easier lot;

If some have thirsted to renew

A broken vow, or bind a true,

With firmer, holier knot.
And not in vain, when thoughts are cast

Upon the irrevocable past,

Some Penitent sincere

May for a worthier future sigh,

While trickles from his downcast eye

No unavailing tear.
The Worldling, pining to be freed

From turmoil, who would turn or speed

The current of his fate,

Might stop before this favored scene,

At Nature’s call, nor blush to lean

Upon the Wishing-gate.
The Sage, who feels how blind, how weak

Is man, though loth such help to seek,

Yet, passing, here might pause,

And thirst for insight to allay

Misgiving, while the crimson day

In quietness withdraws;
Or when the church-clock’s knell profound

To Time’s first step across the bound

Of midnight makes reply

Time pressing on with starry crest,

To filial sleep upon the breast

Of dread eternity. 

Poem – Composed During A Storm – William Wordsworth

One who was suffering tumult in his soul, 

Yet failed to seek the sure relief of prayer, 

Went forth–his course surrendering to the care 

Of the fierce wind, while mid-day lightnings prowl 

Insidiously, untimely thunders growl; 

While trees, dim-seen, in frenzied numbers, tear 

The lingering remnant of their yellow hair, 

And shivering wolves, surprised with darkness, howl 

As if the sun were not. He raised his eye 

Soul-smitten; for, that instant, did appear 

Large space (‘mid dreadful clouds) of purest sky, 

An azure disc–shield of Tranquillity; 

Invisible, unlooked-for, minister 

Of providential goodness ever nigh!

Poem – Expostulation And Reply – William Wordsworth

“Why, William, on that old grey stone, 

Thus for the length of half a day, 

Why, William, sit you thus alone, 

And dream your time away? 
“Where are your books?–that light bequeathed 

To Beings else forlorn and blind! 

Up! up! and drink the spirit breathed 

From dead men to their kind. 
“You look round on your Mother Earth, 

As if she for no purpose bore you; 

As if you were her first-born birth, 

And none had lived before you!” 
One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake, 

When life was sweet, I knew not why, 

To me my good friend Matthew spake, 

And thus I made reply: 
“The eye–it cannot choose but see; 

We cannot bid the ear be still; 

Our bodies feel, where’er they be, 

Against or with our will. 
“Nor less I deem that there are Powers 

Which of themselves our minds impress; 

That we can feed this mind of ours 

In a wise passiveness. 
“Think you, ‘mid all this mighty sum 

Of things for ever speaking, 

That nothing of itself will come, 

But we must still be seeking? 
“–Then ask not wherefore, here, alone, 

Conversing as I may, 

I sit upon this old grey stone, 

And dream my time away,”

Poems – British Freedom – William Wordsworth

It is not to be thought of that the Flood 

Of British freedom, which, to the open sea 

Of the world’s praise, from dark antiquity 

Hath flowed, ‘with pomp of waters, unwithstood,’ 

Roused though it be full often to a mood 

Which spurns the check of salutary bands, 

That this most famous Stream in bogs and sands 

Should perish; and to evil and to good 

Be lost for ever. In our halls is hung 

Armoury of the invincible Knights of old: 

We must be free or die, who speak the tongue 

That Shakespeare spake; the faith and morals hold 

Which Milton held.-In every thing we are sprung 

Of Earth’s first blood, have titles manifold.

Poems – Foresight – William Wordsworth

That is work of waste and ruin– 

Do as Charles and I are doing! 

Strawberry-blossoms, one and all, 

We must spare them–here are many: 

Look at it–the flower is small, 

Small and low, though fair as any: 

Do not touch it! summers two 

I am older, Anne, than you. 
Pull the primrose, sister Anne! 

Pull as many as you can. 

–Here are daisies, take your fill; 

Pansies, and the cuckoo-flower: 

Of the lofty daffodil 

Make your bed, or make your bower; 

Fill your lap, and fill your bosom; 

Only spare the strawberry-blossom! 
Primroses, the Spring may love them– 

Summer knows but little of them: 

Violets, a barren kind, 

Withered on the ground must lie; 

Daisies leave no fruit behind 

When the pretty flowerets die; 

Pluck them, and another year 

As many will be blowing here. 
God has given a kindlier power 

To the favoured strawberry-flower. 

Hither soon as spring is fled 

You and Charles and I will walk; 

Lurking berries, ripe and red, 

Then will hang on every stalk, 

Each within its leafy bower; 

And for that promise spare the flower

Poems – Composed During A Storm – William Wordsworth

One who was suffering tumult in his soul, 

Yet failed to seek the sure relief of prayer, 

Went forth–his course surrendering to the care 

Of the fierce wind, while mid-day lightnings prowl 

Insidiously, untimely thunders growl; 

While trees, dim-seen, in frenzied numbers, tear 

The lingering remnant of their yellow hair, 

And shivering wolves, surprised with darkness, howl 

As if the sun were not. He raised his eye 

Soul-smitten; for, that instant, did appear 

Large space (‘mid dreadful clouds) of purest sky, 

An azure disc–shield of Tranquillity; 

Invisible, unlooked-for, minister 

Of providential goodness ever nigh!

Poems – Hoffer – William Wordsworth

OF mortal parents is the Hero born 

By whom the undaunted Tyrolese are led? 

Or is it Tell’s great Spirit, from the dead 

Returned to animate an age forlorn? 

He comes like Phoebus through the gates of morn 

When dreary darkness is discomfited, 

Yet mark his modest state! upon his head, 

That simple crest, a heron’s plume, is worn. 

O Liberty! they stagger at the shock 

From van to rear–and with one mind would flee, 

But half their host is buried:–rock on rock 

Descends:–beneath this godlike Warrior, see! 

Hills, torrents, woods, embodied to bemock 

The Tyrant, and confound his cruelty.

Poem – The World Is Too Much With Us; Late And Soon

William Wordsworth
1770 – 1850 Cumberland / England

The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for everything, we are out of tune,
It moves us not.–Great God! I’d rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.

Poem – To The Memory Of Raisley Calvert

William Wordsworth
1770 – 1850
Cumberland / England

CALVERT! it must not be unheard by them
Who may respect my name, that I to thee
Owed many years of early liberty.
This care was thine when sickness did condemn
Thy youth to hopeless wasting, root and stem–
That I, if frugal and severe, might stray
Where’er I liked; and finally array
My temples with the Muse’s diadem.
Hence, if in freedom I have loved the truth;
If there be aught of pure, or good, or great,
In my past verse; or shall be, in the lays
Of higher mood, which now I meditate;–
It gladdens me, O worthy, short-lived, Youth!
To think how much of this will be thy praise.

Poem – Translation Of Part Of The First Book Of The Aeneid

William Wordsworth
1770 – 1850
Cumberland / England

BUT Cytherea, studious to invent
Arts yet untried, upon new counsels bent,
Resolves that Cupid, changed in form and face
To young Ascanius, should assume his place;
Present the maddening gifts, and kindle heat
Of passion at the bosom’s inmost seat.
She dreads the treacherous house, the double tongue;
She burns, she frets–by Juno’s rancour stung;
The calm of night is powerless to remove
These cares, and thus she speaks to winged Love:

‘O son, my strength, my power! who dost despise
(What, save thyself, none dares through earth and skies)
The giant-quelling bolts of Jove, I flee,
O son, a suppliant to thy deity!
What perils meet Aeneas in his course,
How Juno’s hate with unrelenting force
Pursues thy brother–this to thee is known;
And oft-times hast thou made my griefs thine own.
Him now the generous Dido by soft chains
Of bland entreaty at her court detains;
Junonian hospitalities prepare
Such apt occasion that I dread a snare.
Hence, ere some hostile God can intervene,
Would I, by previous wiles, inflame the queen
With passion for Aeneas, such strong love
That at my beck, mine only, she shall move.
Hear, and assist;–the father’s mandate calls
His young Ascanius to the Tyrian walls;
He comes, my dear delight,–and costliest things
Preserved from fire and flood for presents brings.
Him will I take, and in close covert keep,
‘Mid groves Idalian, lulled to gentle sleep,
Or on Cythera’s far-sequestered steep,
That he may neither know what hope is mine,
Nor by his presence traverse the design.
Do thou, but for a single night’s brief space,
Dissemble; be that boy in form and face!
And when enraptured Dido shall receive
Thee to her arms, and kisses interweave
With many a fond embrace, while joy runs high,
And goblets crown the proud festivity,
Instil thy subtle poison, and inspire,
At every touch, an unsuspected fire.’

Love, at the word, before his mother’s sight
Puts off his wings, and walks, with proud delight,
Like young Iulus; but the gentlest dews
Of slumber Venus sheds, to circumfuse
The true Ascanius steeped in placid rest;
Then wafts him, cherished on her careful breast,
Through upper air to an Idalian glade,
Where he on soft ‘amaracus’ is laid,
With breathing flowers embraced, and fragrant shade.
But Cupid, following cheerily his guide
Achates, with the gifts to Carthage hied;
And, as the hall he entered, there, between
The sharers of her golden couch, was seen
Reclined in festal pomp the Tyrian queen.
The Trojans, too (Aeneas at their head),
On conches lie, with purple overspread:
Meantime in canisters is heaped the bread,
Pellucid water for the hands is borne,
And napkins of smooth texture, finely shorn.
Within are fifty handmaids, who prepare,
As they in order stand, the dainty fare;
And fume the household deities with store
Of odorous incense; while a hundred more
Matched with an equal number of like age,
But each of manly sex, a docile page,
Marshal the banquet, giving with due grace
To cup or viand its appointed place.
The Tyrians rushing in, an eager band,
Their painted couches seek, obedient to command.
They look with wonder on the gifts–they gaze
Upon Iulus, dazzled with the rays
That from his ardent countenance are flung,
And charmed to hear his simulating tongue;
Nor pass unpraised the robe and veil divine,
Round which the yellow flowers and wandering foliage twine.

But chiefly Dido, to the coming ill
Devoted, strives in vain her vast desires to fill;
She views the gifts; upon the child then turns
Insatiable looks, and gazing burns.
To ease a father’s cheated love he hung
Upon Aeneas, and around him clung;
Then seeks the queen; with her his arts he tries;
She fastens on the boy enamoured eyes,
Clasps in her arms, nor weens (O lot unblest!)
How great a God, incumbent o’er her breast,
Would fill it with his spirit. He, to please
His Acidalian mother, by degrees
Blots out Sichaeus, studious to remove
The dead, by influx of a living love,
By stealthy entrance of a perilous guest.
Troubling a heart that had been long at rest.

Now when the viands were withdrawn, and ceased
The first division of the splendid feast,
While round a vacant board the chiefs recline,
Huge goblets are brought forth; they crown the wine;
Voices of gladness roll the walls around;
Those gladsome voices from the courts rebound;
From gilded rafters many a blazing light
Depends, and torches overcome the night.
The minutes fly–till, at the queen’s command,
A bowl of state is offered to her hand:
Then she, as Belus wont, and all the line
From Belus, filled it to the brim with wine;
Silence ensued. ‘O Jupiter, whose care
Is hospitable dealing, grant my prayer!
Productive day be this of lasting joy
To Tyrians, and these exiles driven from Troy;
A day to future generations dear!
Let Bacchus, donor of soul-quick’ning cheer,
Be present; kindly Juno, be thou near!
And, Tyrians, may your choicest favours wait
Upon this hour, the bond to celebrate!’
She spake and shed an offering on the board;
Then sipped the bowl whence she the wine had poured
And gave to Bitias, urging the prompt lord;
He raised the bowl, and took a long deep draught;
Then every chief in turn the beverage quaffed.

Graced with redundant hair, Iopas sings
The lore of Atlas, to resounding strings,
The labours of the Sun, the lunar wanderings;
When human kind, and brute; what natural powers
Engender lightning, whence are falling showers.
He haunts Arcturus,–that fraternal twain
The glittering Bears,–the Pleiads fraught with rain;
–Why suns in winter, shunning heaven’s steep heights
Post seaward,–what impedes the tardy nights.
The learned song from Tyrian hearers draws
Loud shouts,–the Trojans echo the applause.
–But, lengthening out the night with converse new,
Large draughts of love unhappy Dido drew;
Of Priam asked, of Hector–o’er and o’er–
What arms the son of bright Aurora wore;–
What steeds the car of Diomed could boast;
Among the leaders of the Grecian host.
How looked Achilles, their dread paramount–
‘But nay–the fatal wiles, O guest, recount,
Retrace the Grecian cunning from its source,
Your own grief and your friends?–your wandering course;
For now, till this seventh summer have ye ranged
The sea, or trod the earth, to peace estranged.’

It was an April morning: fresh and clear – William Wordsworth

William Wordsworth
1770 – 1850
Cumberland / England

It was an April morning: fresh and clear
The Rivulet, delighting in its strength,
Ran with a young man’s speed; and yet the voice
Of waters which the winter had supplied
Was softened down into a vernal tone.
The spirit of enjoyment and desire,
And hopes and wishes, from all living things
Went circling, like a multitude of sounds.
The budding groves seemed eager to urge on
The steps of June; as if their various hues
Were only hindrances that stood between
Them and their object: but, meanwhile, prevailed
Such an entire contentment in the air
That every naked ash, and tardy tree
Yet leafless, showed as if the countenance
With which it looked on this delightful day
Were native to the summer.–Up the brook
I roamed in the confusion of my heart,
Alive to all things and forgetting all.
At length I to a sudden turning came
In this continuous glen, where down a rock
The Stream, so ardent in its course before,
Sent forth such sallies of glad sound, that all
Which I till then had heard, appeared the voice
Of common pleasure: beast and bird, the lamb,
The shepherd’s dog, the linnet and the thrush
Vied with this waterfall, and made a song,
Which, while I listened, seemed like the wild growth
Or like some natural produce of the air,
That could not cease to be. Green leaves were here;
But ’twas the foliage of the rocks–the birch,
The yew, the holly, and the bright green thorn,
With hanging islands of resplendent furze:
And, on a summit, distant a short space,
By any who should look beyond the dell,
A single mountain-cottage might be seen.
I gazed and gazed, and to myself I said,
‘Our thoughts at least are ours; and this wild nook,
My EMMA, I will dedicate to thee.’
Soon did the spot become my other home,
My dwelling, and my out-of-doors abode.
And, of the Shepherds who have seen me there,
To whom I sometimes in our idle talk
Have told this fancy, two or three, perhaps,
Years after we are gone and in our graves,
When they have cause to speak of this wild place,
May call it by the name of EMMA’S DELL.

She dwelt among the untrodden ways – William Wordsworth

William Wordsworth
1770 – 1850
Cumberland / England

She dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dove,
Maid whom there were none to praise
And very few to love:

A violet by a mossy stone
Half hidden from the eye!
Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky.

She lived unknown, and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be;
But she is in her grave, and, oh,
The difference to me!

A Character – William Wordsworth

William Wordsworth
1770 – 1850
Cumberland / England

I marvel how Nature could ever find space
For so many strange contrasts in one human face:
There’s thought and no thought, and there’s paleness and bloom
And bustle and sluggishness, pleasure and gloom.

There’s weakness, and strength both redundant and vain;
Such strength as, if ever affliction and pain
Could pierce through a temper that’s soft to disease,
Would be rational peace–a philosopher’s ease.

There’s indifference, alike when he fails or succeeds,
And attention full ten times as much as there needs;
Pride where there’s no envy, there’s so much of joy;
And mildness, and spirit both forward and coy.

There’s freedom, and sometimes a diffident stare
Of shame scarcely seeming to know that she’s there,
There’s virtue, the title it surely may claim,
Yet wants heaven knows what to be worthy the name.

This picture from nature may seem to depart,
Yet the Man would at once run away with your heart;
And I for five centuries right gladly would be
Such an odd such a kind happy creature as he.

I wandered lonely as a cloud – William Wordsworth

William Wordsworth
1770 – 1850
Cumberland / England

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

Daffodils – William Wordsworth

William Wordsworth
1770-1850
Cumberland / England

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed–and gazed–but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

Calm is all nature as a resting wheel – William Wordsworth

William Wordsworth
1770-1850
Cumberland / England

Calm is all nature as a resting wheel.
The kine are couched upon the dewy grass;
The horse alone, seen dimly as I pass,
Is cropping audibly his later meal:
Dark is the ground; a slumber seems to steal
O’er vale, and mountain, and the starless sky.
Now, in this blank of things, a harmony,
Home-felt, and home-created, comes to heal
That grief for which the senses still supply
Fresh food; for only then, when memory
Is hushed, am I at rest. My Friends! restrain
Those busy cares that would allay my pain;
Oh! leave me to myself, nor let me feel
The officious touch that makes me droop again.