William Wordsworth - poems - Poem Hunter

1 Classic Poetry Series William Wordsworth - poems - Publication Date:2004 - The World's Poetry ArchiveWilliam Wordsworth (1770-1850) Wordsworth , born in his beloved Lake District, was the son of an attorney. Hewent to school first at Penrith and then at Hawkshead Grammar school beforestudying, from 1787, at St John's College, Cambridge - all of which periods werelater to be described vividly in The Prelude. In 1790 he went with friends on awalking tour to France, the Alps and Italy, before arriving in France whereWordsworth was to spend the next year. Whilst in France he fell in love twice over: once with a young French woman,Annette Vallon, who subsequently bore him a daughter, and then, once more,with the French Revolution.

2 Returning to England he wrote, and left unpublished,his Letter to the Bishop of Llandaff - a tract in support of the FrenchRevolutionary cause. In 1795, after receiving a legacy, Wordsworth lived with hissister Dorothy first in Dorset and then at Alfoxden, Dorset, close to Coleridge. In these years he wrote many of his greatest poems and also travelled withColeridge and Dorothy, in the winter of 1798-79, to Germany. Two years laterthe second and enlarged edition of the Lyrical Ballads appeared in 1801, just oneyear before Wordsworth married Mary Hutchinson. This was followed, in 1807, bythe publication of poems in Two Volumes, which included the poems 'Resolutionand Independence' and 'Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of EarlyChildhood'.

3 During this period he also made new friendships with Walter Scott, Sir and De Quincy, wrote such poems as 'Elegaic Stanzas suggested by aPicture of Peele Castle' (1807), and fathered five children. He received a civil listpension in 1842 and was made poet-laureate just one year later. Today Wordsworth 's poetry remains widely read. Its almost universal appeal isperhaps best explained by Wordsworth 's own words on the role, for him, ofpoetry; what he called "the most philosophical of all writing" whose object is" alive into the heart by passion". - The World's Poetry ArchiveA Character I marvel how Nature could ever find spaceFor so many strange contrasts in one human face:There's thought and no thought, and there's paleness and bloomAnd bustle and sluggishness, pleasure and gloom.

4 There's weakness, and strength both redundant and vain;Such strength as, if ever affliction and painCould 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 stareOf 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 beSuch an odd such a kind happy creature as he.

5 William - The World's Poetry ArchiveA Complaint There is a change--and I am poor;Your love hath been, nor long ago,A fountain at my fond heart's door,Whose only business was to flow;And flow it did; not taking heedOf its own bounty , or my need. What happy moments did I count!Blest was I then all bliss above!Now, for that consecrated fountOf murmuring, sparkling, living love,What have I? Shall I dare to tell?A comfortless and hidden well. A well of love--it may be deep--I trust it is,--and never dry:What matter? If the waters sleepIn silence and change, and at the very doorOf my fond heart, hath made me poor. William - The World's Poetry ArchiveA Fact, And An Imagination, Or, Canute And Alfred,On The Seashore THE Danish Conqueror, on his royal chair,Mustering a face of haughty sovereignty,To aid a covert purpose, cried--'O yeApproaching Waters of the deep, that shareWith this green isle my fortunes, come not whereYour Master's throne is set.

6 '--Deaf was the Sea;Her waves rolled on, respecting his decreeLess than they heed a breath of wanton Canute, rising from the invaded throne,Said to his servile Courtiers,--'Poor the reach,The undisguised extent, of mortal sway!He only is a King, and he aloneDeserves the name (this truth the billows preach)Whose everlasting laws, sea, earth, and heaven, obey.'This just reproof the prosperous DaneDrew, from the influx of the main,For some whose rugged northern mouths would strainAt oriental flattery;And Canute (fact more worthy to be known)From that time forth did for his brows disownThe ostentatious symbol of a crown;Esteeming earthly royaltyContemptible as hear what one of elder days,Rich theme of England's fondest praise,Her darling Alfred, 'might' have spoken;To cheer the remnant of his hostWhen he was driven from coast to coast,Distressed and harassed, but with mind unbroken:'My faithful followers, lo!

7 The tide is spentThat rose, and steadily advanced to fillThe shores and channels, working Nature's willAmong the mazy streams that backward went,And in the sluggish pools where ships are pent:And now, his task performed, the flood stands still,At the green base of many an inland hill,In placid beauty and sublime content! - The World's Poetry ArchiveSuch the repose that sage and hero find;Such measured rest the sedulous and goodOf humbler name; whose souls do, like the floodOf Ocean, press right on; or gently wind,Neither to be diverted nor withstood,Until they reach the bounds by Heaven assigned.' William - The World's Poetry ArchiveA Farewell FAREWELL, thou little Nook of mountain-ground,Thou rocky corner in the lowest stairOf that magnificent temple which doth boundOne side of our whole vale with grandeur rare;Sweet garden-orchard, eminently fair,The loveliest spot that man hath ever found,Farewell!

8 --we leave thee to Heaven's peaceful care,Thee, and the Cottage which thou dost surround. Our boat is safely anchored by the shore,And there will safely ride when we are gone;The flowering shrubs that deck our humble doorWill prosper, though untended and alone:Fields, goods, and far-off chattels we have none:These narrow bounds contain our private storeOf things earth makes, and sun doth shine upon;Here are they in our sight--we have no more. Sunshine and shower be with you, bud and bell!For two months now in vain we shall be sought:We leave you here in solitude to dwellWith these our latest gifts of tender thought;Thou, like the morning, in thy saffron coat,Bright gowan, and marsh-marigold, farewell!Whom from the borders of the Lake we brought,And placed together near our rocky Well.

9 We go for One to whom ye will be dear;And she will prize this Bower, this Indian shed,Our own contrivance, Building without peer!--A gentle Maid, whose heart is lowly bred,Whose pleasures are in wild fields gathered,With joyousness, and with a thoughtful cheer,Will come to you; to you herself will wed;And love the blessed life that we lead here. Dear Spot! which we have watched with tender heed,Bringing thee chosen plants and blossoms blownAmong the distant mountains, flower and weed, - The World's Poetry ArchiveWhich thou hast taken to thee as thy own,Making all kindness registered and known;Thou for our sakes, though Nature's child indeed,Fair in thyself and beautiful alone,Hast taken gifts which thou dost little need.

10 And O most constant, yet most fickle Place,Thou hast thy wayward moods, as thou dost showTo them who look not daily on thy face;Who, being loved, in love no bounds dost know,And say'st, when we forsake thee, 'Let them go!'Thou easy-hearted Thing, with thy wild raceOf weeds and flowers, till we return be slow,And travel with the year at a soft pace. Help us to tell Her tales of years gone by,And this sweet spring, the best beloved and best;Joy will be flown in its mortality;Something must stay to tell us of the , thronged with primroses, the steep rock's breastGlittered at evening like a starry sky;And in this bush our sparrow built her nest,Of which I sang one song that will not die. O happy Garden! whose seclusion deepHath been so friendly to industrious hours;And to soft slumbers, that did gently steepOur spirits, carrying with them dreams of flowers,And wild notes warbled among leafy bowers;Two burning months let summer overleap,And, coming back with Her who will be ours,Into thy bosom we again shall creep.