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23 Works of William Wordsworth

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The minstrels played their Christmas tune To-night beneath my cottage eaves; While smitten by a lofty moon, The encircling laurels thick with leaves, Gave back a rich and dazzling sheen, That overpowered their natural green. Through hill and valley every breeze Had sunk to rest with folded wings: Keen was the air, but could not […]

ADMONITION,(Intended more particularly for the Perusal of those who may have happened to be enamoured of some beautiful Place of Retreat, in the Country of the Lakes.) Yes, there is holy pleasure in thine eye!–The lovely Cottage in the guardian nookHath stirr’d thee deeply; with its own dear brook,Its own small pasture, almost its own […]

ADVERTISEMENT. By Persons resident in the country and attached to rural objects, many places will be found unnamed or of unknown names, where little Incidents will have occurred, or feelings been experienced, which will have given to such places a private and peculiar interest. From a wish to give some sort of record to such […]

“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 bequeath’dTo beings else forlorn and blind!Up! Up! and drink the spirit breath’dFrom dead men to their kind.” “You look round on your mother earth,As if she […]

Up! up! my friend, and clear your looks,Why all this toil and trouble?Up! up! my friend, and quit your books,Or surely you’ll grow double. The sun, above the mountain’s head,A freshening lustre mellowThrough all the long green fields has spread,His first sweet evening yellow. Books! ’tis dull and endless strife,Come, here the woodland linnet,How sweet […]

The little hedge-row birdsThat peck along the road, regard him not.He travels on, and in his face, his step,His gait, is one expression; every limb,His look and bending figure, all bespeakA man who does not move with pain, but movesWith thought–He is insensibly subduedTo settled quiet: he is one by whomAll effort seems forgotten, one […]

Before I see another day,Oh let my body die away!In sleep I heard the northern gleams;The stars they were among my dreams;In sleep did I behold the skies,I saw the crackling flashes drive;And yet they are upon my eyes,And yet I am alive.Before I see another day,Oh let my body die away! My fire is […]

In distant countries I have been,And yet I have not often seenA healthy man, a man full grown,Weep in the public roads alone.But such a one, on English ground,And in the broad high-way, I met;Along the broad high-way he came,His cheeks with tears were wet.Sturdy he seemed, though he was sad;And in his arms a […]

Lines Left upon a seat in a YEW-TREE, which stands near the Lake of ESTHWAITE, on a desolate part of the shore, yet commanding a beautiful prospect. –Nay, Traveller! rest. This lonely yew-tree standsFar from all human dwelling: what if hereNo sparkling rivulet spread the verdant herb;What if these barren boughs the bee not loves;Yet, […]

A Narration in Dramatic Blank Verse. But that entrance, Mother! FOSTER-MOTHER. Can no one hear? It is a perilous tale! MARIA. No one. FOSTER-MOTHER. My husband’s father told it me,Poor old Leoni!–Angels rest his soul!He was a woodman, and could fell and sawWith lusty arm. You know that huge round beamWhich props the hanging wall […]

A TRUE STORY, Oh! what’s the matter? what’s the matter?What is’t that ails young Harry Gill?That evermore his teeth they chatter,Chatter, chatter, chatter still.Of waistcoats Harry has no lack,Good duffle grey, and flannel fine;He has a blanket on his back,And coats enough to smother nine. In March, December, and in July,‘Tis all the same with […]

The Thorn

Story type: Poetry

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I. There is a thorn; it looks so old,In truth you’d find it hard to say,How it could ever have been young,It looks so old and grey.Not higher than a two years’ childIt stands erect this aged thorn;No leaves it has, no thorny points;It is a mass of knotted joints,A wretched thing forlorn.It stands erect, […]

We are Seven

Story type: Poetry

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A simple child, dear brother Jim,That lightly draws its breath,And feels its life in every limb,What should it know of death? I met a little cottage girl,She was eight years old, she said;Her hair was thick with many a curlThat cluster’d round her head. She had a rustic, woodland air,And she was wildly clad;Her eyes […]

Lines written at a small distance from my House and sent me by my little Boy to the Person to whom they are addressed It is the first mild day of March:Each minute sweeter than before,The red-breast sings from the tall larchThat stands beside our door. There is a blessing in the air,Which seems a […]

By Derwent’s side my Father’s cottage stood,(The Woman thus her artless story told)One field, a flock, and what the neighbouring floodSupplied, to him were more than mines of gold.Light was my sleep; my days in transport roll’d:With thoughtless joy I stretch’d along the shoreMy father’s nets, or from the mountain foldSaw on the distant lake […]

The Dungeon

Story type: Poetry

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And this place our forefathers made for man!This is the process of our love and wisdomTo each poor brother who offends against us–Most innocent, perhaps–and what if guilty?Is this the only cure? Merciful God!Each pore and natural outlet shrivell’d upBy ignorance and parching poverty,His energies roll back upon his heart,And stagnate and corrupt; till changed […]

With an incident in which he was concerned. In the sweet shire of Cardigan,Not far from pleasant Ivor-hall,An old man dwells, a little man,I’ve heard he once was tall.Of years he has upon his back,No doubt, a burthen weighty;He says he is three score and ten,But others say he’s eighty. A long blue livery-coat has […]

I heard a thousand blended notes,While in a grove I sate reclined,In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughtsBring sad thoughts to the mind. To her fair works did nature linkThe human soul that through me ran;And much it griev’d my heart to thinkWhat man has made of man. Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower,The […]

How rich the wave, in front, imprestWith evening twilights summer hues,While, facing thus the crimson west,The boat her silent path pursues!And see how dark the backward stream!A little moment past, so smiling!And still, perhaps, with faithless gleam,Some other loiterer beguiling. Such views the youthful bard allure,But, heedless of the following gloom,He deems their colours shall […]

The Mad Mother

Story type: Poetry

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Her eyes are wild, her head is bare,The sun has burnt her coal-black hair,Her eye-brows have a rusty stain,And she came far from over the main.She has a baby on her arm,Or else she were alone;And underneath the hay-stack warm,And on the green-wood stone,She talked and sung the woods among;And it was in the English […]

The Idiot Boy

Story type: Poetry

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‘Tis eight o’clock,–a clear March night,The moon is up–the sky is blue,The owlet in the moonlight air,He shouts from nobody knows where;He lengthens out his lonely shout,Halloo! halloo! a long halloo! –Why bustle thus about your door,What means this bustle, Betty Foy?Why are you in this mighty fret?And why on horseback have you setHim whom […]

Ab revisiting the banks of the WYE during a Tour.July 13, 1798. Five years have passed; five summers, with the lengthOf five long winters! and again I hearThese waters, rolling from their mountain-springsWith a sweet inland murmur. [1]–Once againDo I behold these steep and lofty cliffs,Which on a wild secluded scene impressThoughts of more deep […]

Glide gently, thus for ever glide,O Thames! that other bards may see,As lovely visions by thy sideAs now, fair river! come to me.Oh glide, fair stream! for ever so;Thy quiet soul on all bestowing,‘Till all our minds for ever flow,As thy deep waters now are flowing. Vain thought! yet be as now thou art,That in […]