The Rainbow

MY heart leaps up when I behold

A rainbow in the sky:

So was it when my life began;

So is it now I am a man;

So be it when I shall grow old,

Or let me die!

The Child is father of the Man;

And I could wish my day to be

Bound each to each by natural piety.

William Wordsworth

I Travelled Among Unknown Men

I TRAVELLED among unknown men,

In lands beyond the sea;

Nor, England! did I know till then

What love I bore to thee.

'Tis past, that melancholy dream!

Nor will I quit thy shore

A second time; for still I seem

To love thee more and more.

Among thy mountains did I feel

The joy of my desire;

And she I cherished turned her wheel

Beside an English fire.

Thy mornings showed, thy nights concealed,

The bowers where Lucy played;

And thine too is the last green field

That Lucy's eyes surveyed.

William Wordsworth

I Wandered Lonely As a Cloud

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,

The 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

Outdid 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 to me the show 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.

William Wordsworth

The Longest Day

LET us quit the leafy arbor,

And the torrent murmuring by;

For the sun is in his harbor,

Weary of the open sky.

Evening now unbinds the fetters

Fashioned by the glowing light;

All that breathe are thankful debtors

To the harbinger of night.

Yet by some grave thoughts attended

Eve renews her calm career;

For the day that now is ended,

Is the longest of the year.

Dora! sport, as now thou sportest,

On this platform, light and free;

Take thy bliss, while longest, shortest,

Are indifferent to thee!

Who would check the happy feeling

That inspires the linnet's song?

Who would stop the swallow, wheeling

On her pinions swift and strong?

Yet at this impressive season,

Words which tenderness can speak

From the truths of homely reason,

Might exalt the loveliest cheek;

And, while shades to shades succeeding

Steal the landscape from the sight,

I would urge this moral pleading,

Last forerunner of "Good night!"

Summer ebbs; -- each day that follows

Is a reflux from on high,

Tending to the darksome hollows

Where the frosts of winter lie.

He who governs the creation,

In his providence, assigned

Such a gradual declination

To the life of human kind.

Yet we mark it not; -- fruits redden,

Fresh flowers blow, as flowers have blown,

And the heart is loth to deaden

Hopes that she so long hath known.

Be thou wiser, youthful Maiden!

And when thy decline shall come,

Let not dowers, or boughs fruit-laden,

Hide the knowledge of thy doom.

Now, even now, ere wrapped in slumber,

Fix thine eyes upon the sea

That absorbs time, space, and number;

Look thou to Eternity!

Follow thou the flowing river

On whose breast are thither borne

All deceived, and each deceiver,

Through the gates of night and morn;

Through the year's successive portals;

Through the bounds which many a star

Marks, not mindless of frail mortals,

When his light returns from far.

Thus when thou with Time hast travelled

Toward the mighty gulf of things,

And the mazy stream unravelled

With thy best imaginings;

Think, if thou on beauty leanest,

Think how pitiful that stay,

Did not virtue give the meanest

Charms superior to decay.

Duty, like a strict preceptor,

Sometimes frowns, or seems to frown;

Choose her thistle for thy sceptre,

While youth's roses are thy crown.

Grasp it, -- if thou shrink and tremble,

Fairest damsel of the green,

Thou wilt lack the only symbol

That proclaims a genuine queen;

And ensures those palms of honor

Which selected spirits wear,

Bending low before the Donor,

Lord of heaven's unchanging year!

William Wordsworth

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.

William Wordsworth

She Was a Phantom of Delight

SHE was a phantom of delight

When first she gleamed upon my sight;

A lovely Apparition, sent

To be a moment's ornament;

Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair;

Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair;

But all things else about her drawn

From May-time and the cheerful Dawn;

A dancing Shape, an Image gay,

To haunt, to startle, and way-lay.

I saw her upon a nearer view,

A Spirit, yet a Woman too!

Her household motions light and free,

And steps of virgin liberty;

A countenance in which did meet

Sweet records, promises as sweet;

A Creature not too bright or good

For human nature's daily food;

For transient sorrows, simple wiles,

Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears and smiles.

And now I see with eye serene

The very pulse of the machine;

A Being breathing thoughtful breath,

A Traveler between life and death;

The reason firm, the temperate will,

Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;

A perfect Woman, nobly planned,

To warm, to comfort, and command;

And yet a Spirit still, and bright,

With something of angelic light.

William Wordsworth

Written in March

  THE cock is crowing,

  The stream is flowing,

  The small birds twitter,

  The lake doth glitter

The green field sleeps in the sun;

  The oldest and youngest

  Are at work with the strongest;

  The cattle are grazing,

  Their heads never raising;

There are forty feeding like one!

  Like an army defeated

  The snow hath retreated,

  And now doth fare ill

  On the top of the bare hill;

The plowboy is whooping- anon-anon:

  There's joy in the mountains;

  There's life in the fountains;

  Small clouds are sailing,

  Blue sky prevailing;

The rain is over and gone!

William Wordsworth

The Solitary Reaper

from Memorials of a Tour in Scotland, 1803

BEHOLD her, single in the field,

Yon solitary Highland Lass!

Reaping and singing by herself;

Stop here, or gently pass!

Alone she cuts and binds the grain,

And sings a melancholy strain;

O listen! for the Vale profound

Is overflowing with the sound.

No Nightingale did ever chaunt

More welcome notes to weary bands

Of travellers in some shady haunt,

Among Arabian sands:

A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard

In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,

Breaking the silence of the seas

Among the farthest Hebrides.

Will no one tell me what she sings?--

Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow

For old, unhappy, far-off things,

And battles long ago:

Or is it some more humble lay,

Familiar matter of to-day?

Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,

That has been, and may be again?

Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang

As if her song could have no ending;

I saw her singing at her work,

And o'er the sickle bending;--

I listened, motionless and still;

And, as I mounted up the hill

The music in my heart I bore,

Long after it was heard no more.

William Wordsworth

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?

William Wordsworth

I Know an Aged Man Constrained to Dwell

I KNOW an aged Man constrained to dwell

In a large house of public charity,

Where he abides, as in a Prisoner's cell,

With numbers near, alas! no company.

When he could creep about, at will, though poor

And forced to live on alms, this old Man fed

A Redbreast, one that to his cottage door

Came not, but in a lane partook his bread.

There, at the root of one particular tree,

An easy seat this worn-out Labourer found

While Robin pecked the crumbs upon his knee

Laid one by one, or scattered on the ground.

Dear intercourse was theirs, day after day;

What signs of mutual gladness when they met!

Think of their common peace, their simple play,

The parting moment and its fond regret.

Months passed in love that failed not to fulfil,

In spite of season's change, its own demand,

By fluttering pinions here and busy bill;

There by caresses from a tremulous hand.

Thus in the chosen spot a tie so strong

Was formed between the solitary pair,

That when his fate had housed him 'mid a throng

The Captive shunned all converse proffered there.

Wife, children, kindred, they were dead and gone;

But, if no evil hap his wishes crossed,

One living Stay was left, and on that one

Some recompence for all that he had lost.

Oh that the good old Man had power to prove,

By message sent through air or visible token,

That still he loves the Bird, and still must love;

That friendship lasts though fellowship is broken!

William Wordsworth, (1846)

London, 1802

MILTON! thou should'st 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.

William Wordsworth

Composed Upon Westminster Bridge

September 3, 1802

EARTH has not anything to show more fair:

Dull would he be of soul who could pass by

A sight so touching in its majesty:

This City now doth, like a garment, wear

The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,

Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie

Open unto the fields, and to the sky;

All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.

Never did sun more beautifully steep

In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill;

Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!

The river glideth at his own sweet will:

Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;

And all that mighty heart is lying still!

William Wordsworth

The Sun Has Long Been Set

THE sun has long been set,

The stars are out by twos and threes,

The little birds are piping yet

Among the bushes and trees;

There's a cuckoo, and one or two thrushes,

And a far-off wind that rushes,

And a sound of water that gushes,

And the cuckoo's sovereign cry

Fills all the hollow of the sky.

Who would "go parading"

In London, "and masquerading,"

On such a night of June

With that beautiful soft half-moon,

And all these innocent blisses?

On such a night as this is!

William Wordsworth

Memory

A PEN--to register; a key--

That winds through secret wards

Are well assigned to Memory

By allegoric Bards.

As aptly, also, might be given

A Pencil to her hand;

That, softening objects, sometimes even

Outstrips the heart's demand;

That smooths foregone distress, the lines

Of lingering care subdues,

Long-vanished happiness refines,

And clothes in brighter hues;

Yet, like a tool of Fancy, works

Those Spectres to dilate

That startle Conscience, as she lurks

Within her lonely seat.

Oh! that our lives, which flee so fast,

In purity were such,

That not an image of the past

Should fear that pencil's touch!

Retirement then might hourly look

Upon a soothing scene,

Age steal to his allotted nook

Contented and serene;

With heart as calm as lakes that sleep,

In frosty moonlight glistening;

Or mountain rivers, where they creep

Along a channel smooth and deep,

To their own far-off murmurs listening.

William Wordsworth, (1823)

By the Seaside

THE sun is couched, the sea-fowl gone to rest,

And the wild storm hath somewhere found a nest;

Air slumbers--wave with wave no longer strives,

Only a heaving of the deep survives,

A tell-tale motion! soon will it be laid,

And by the tide alone the water swayed.

Stealthy withdrawings, interminglings mild

Of light with shade in beauty reconciled--

Such is the prospect far as sight can range,

The soothing recompence, the welcome change.

Where, now, the ships that drove before the blast,

Threatened by angry breakers as they passed;

And by a train of flying clouds bemocked;

Or, in the hollow surge, at anchor rocked

As on a bed of death? Some lodge in peace,

Saved by His care who bade the tempest cease;

And some, too heedless of past danger, court

Fresh gales to waft them to the far-off port

But near, or hanging sea and sky between,

Not one of all those winged powers is seen,

Seen in her course, nor 'mid this quiet heard;

Yet oh! how gladly would the air be stirred

By some acknowledgment of thanks and praise,

Soft in its temper as those vesper lays

Sung to the Virgin while accordant oars

Urge the slow bark along Calabrian shores;

A sea-born service through the mountains felt

Till into one loved vision all things melt:

Or like those hymns that soothe with graver sound

The gulfy coast of Norway iron-bound;

And, from the wide and open Baltic, rise

With punctual care, Lutherian harmonies.

Hush, not a voice is here! but why repine,

Now when the star of eve comes forth to shine

On British waters with that look benign?

Ye mariners, that plough your onward way,

Or in the haven rest, or sheltering bay,

May silent thanks at least to God be given

With a full heart; "our thoughts are 'heard' in heaven."

William Wordsworth, (1833)

The Power of Armies is a Visible Thing

THE power of Armies is a visible thing,

Formal, and circumscribed in time and space;

But who the limits of that power shall trace

Which a brave People into light can bring

Or hide, at will,--for freedom combating

By just revenge inflamed? No foot may chase,

No eye can follow, to a fatal place

That power, that spirit, whether on the wing

Like the strong wind, or sleeping like the wind

Within its awful caves.--From year to year

Springs this indigenous produce far and near;

No craft this subtle element can bind,

Rising like water from the soil, to find

In every nook a lip that it may cheer.

William Wordsworth

Composed During a Storm

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!

William Wordsworth, (1819)

The Shepherd, Looking Eastward, Softly Said

THE Shepherd, looking eastward, softly said,

"Bright is thy veil, O Moon, as thou art bright!"

Forthwith, that little cloud, in ether spread

And penetrated all with tender light,

She cast away, and showed her fulgent head

Uncovered; dazzling the Beholder's sight

As if to vindicate her beauty's right

Her beauty thoughtlessly disparaged.

Meanwhile that veil, removed or thrown aside,

Went floating from her, darkening as it went;

And a huge mass, to bury or to hide,

Approached this glory of the firmament;

Who meekly yields, and is obscured--content

With one calm triumph of a modest pride.

William Wordsworth