William Wordsworth
William Wordsworth Poems
--HAST thou then survived-
Mild Offspring of infirm humanity,
Meek Infant! among all forlornest things
...
WELL may'st thou halt-and gaze with brightening eye!
The lovely Cottage in the guardian nook
Hath stirred thee deeply; with its own dear brook,
...
THE post-boy drove with fierce career,
For threatening clouds the moon had drowned;
When, as we hurried on, my ear
...
AMONG all lovely things my Love had been;
Had noted well the stars, all flowers that grew
About her home; but she had never seen
...
SHOUT, for a mighty Victory is won!
On British ground the Invaders are laid low;
The breath of Heaven has drifted them like snow,
...
WHERE be the temples which, in Britain's Isle,
For his paternal Gods, the Trojan raised?
Gone like a morning dream, or like a pile
...
BEAUMONT! it was thy wish that I should rear
A seemly Cottage in this sunny Dell,
On favoured ground, thy gift, where I might dwell
...
She had a tall man's height or more;
Her face from summer's noontide heat
No bonnet shaded, but she wore
...
WHAT sounds are those, Helvellyn, that are heard
Up to thy summit, through the depth of air
Ascending, as if distance had the power
...
FROM that time forth, Authority in France
Put on a milder face; Terror had ceased,
Yet everything was wanting that might give
...
WHEN Contemplation, like the night-calm felt
Through earth and sky, spreads widely, and sends deep
Into the soul its tranquillising power,
...
In one of those excursions (may they ne'er
Fade from remembrance!) through the Northern tracts
Of Cambria ranging with a youthful friend,
...
BRIGHT was the summer's noon when quickening steps
Followed each other till a dreary moor
Was crossed, a bare ridge clomb, upon whose top
...
EVEN as a river,--partly (it might seem)
Yielding to old remembrances, and swayed
In part by fear to shape a way direct,
...
THUS far, O Friend! have we, though leaving much
Unvisited, endeavoured to retrace
The simple ways in which my childhood walked;
...
SIX changeful years have vanished since I first
Poured out (saluted by that quickening breeze
Which met me issuing from the City's walls)
...
THE leaves were fading when to Esthwaite's banks
And the simplicities of cottage life
I bade farewell; and, one among the youth
...
IT was a beautiful and silent day
That overspread the countenance of earth,
Then fading with unusual quietness,--
...
FROM Nature doth emotion come, and moods
Of calmness equally are Nature's gift:
This is her glory; these two attributes
...
LONG time have human ignorance and guilt
Detained us, on what spectacles of woe
Compelled to look, and inwardly oppressed
...
William Wordsworth Biography
William Wordsworth (1770-1850) was an English poet who is often considered one of the founders of the Romantic movement in English literature. He was born in Cockermouth, England, and grew up in the Lake District, a region that would become the inspiration for much of his poetry. Wordsworth began writing poetry in his early teens, and he went on to attend Cambridge University, where he became friends with fellow poet Samuel Taylor Coleridge. Together, they published Lyrical Ballads (1798), a collection of poems that helped to define the Romantic movement. Wordsworth's poetry is characterized by its focus on nature and the inner lives of individuals, and his use of everyday language and vivid imagery helped to revolutionize the way that poetry was written and read. Some of his most famous works include "I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud," "Tintern Abbey," and "Ode: Intimations of Immortality." In addition to his work as a poet, Wordsworth was also a social and political activist who advocated for radical change during a time of great social upheaval in England. He served as a member of Parliament and supported the abolition of slavery and other progressive causes. Wordsworth died in 1850 at the age of 80. His work has had a profound influence on English literature and on the way that poetry is written and read, and his legacy as one of the greatest poets in the English language continues to be celebrated and studied today. Wordsworth died in 1850 at the age of 80. His work has had a profound influence on English literature and on the way that poetry is written and read, and his legacy as one of the greatest poets in the English language continues to be celebrated and studied today. Wordsworth fell in love twice in France: once with Annette Vallon, a young French lady who later bore him a daughter, and then again with the French Revolution. When he returned to England, he penned his Letter to the Bishop of Llandaff, a treatise in support of the French Revolutionary cause, but it was never published. Following the receipt of a bequest in 1795, Wordsworth moved to Alfoxden, Dorset, near Coleridge, with his sister Dorothy.
Who Was William Wordsworth?
He produced several of his most famous poems at this time, as well as traveling to Germany with Coleridge and Dorothy. In 1802, Wordsworth married Mary Hutchinson, and a year ago, the second and enlarged edition of the Lyrical Ballads was published. Wordsworth's most famous poem, 'I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud' was written at Dove Cottage in 1804. The poems 'Resolution and Independence' and 'Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood' were featured in Poems in Two Volumes, which were published in 1807. He also formed new connections with Walter Scott, Sir G. Beaumont, and De Quincy during this time, produced poetry like "Elegaic Stanzas inspired by a Picture of Peele Castle" (1807). Also he had five children. In 1842, he was an award-winning poet and got a government pension the following year. Wordsworth's poetry is still widely read today. Wordsworth's own remarks on the purpose of poetry, which he termed "the most philosophical of all writing" and whose aim is "truth...carried alive into the heart by passion," may best explain its virtually universal appeal. Wordsworth married Mary Hutchinson, a boyhood friend, in 1802. His personal life became increasingly tough during the following few years. Dorothy had a mental breakdown, his two children died and his brother drowned at sea. Around the turn of the century, his political beliefs shifted, and he became more conservative. He was disillusioned by events in France culminating in Napoleon Bonaparte taking power.
Wordsworth As a Nature Poet
Wordsworth was called by Shelly “Poet of nature”. He, too, called himself “A Worshiper of Nature”. He held a firm faith that nature could enlighten the kindheartedness and universal brotherhood of human being, and only existing in harmony with nature where man could get true happiness. Wordsworth died on April 23, 1850, and was buried in the graveyard of Grasmere.)
The Best Poem Of William Wordsworth
Address To My Infant Daughter, Dora On Being Reminded That She Was A Month Old That Day, September 1
--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 solemnise 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 travellest 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 godlike Power be proud to own.
William Wordsworth Comments
wordsworth is a great poet and i m a great fan of his poems......his every poem has a different feeling..
The child is farthest from the truth that yens to outgrow its youth. - Arthur Tugman
this is a beautiful poem my aunt use to tell me this poem everyday she tells that in this poem the poet describes a lot about nature and she loves this poem so much but now she is dead the last word on her mouth was daffodils
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William Wordsworth Quotes
Instruct them how the mind of Man becomes A thousand times more beautiful than the earth On which he dwells,
Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room;
Through love, through hope, and faith's transcendent dower, We feel that we are greater than we know.
Breathing with such suppression of the heart As joy delights in; and, with wise restraint
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.
The world is too much with us; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers.
Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height, Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke The years to bring the inevitable yoke,
Come, blessed barrier between day and day, Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!
The thought of our past years in me doth breed Perpetual benediction: not indeed For that which is most worthy to be blest— Delight and liberty, the simple creed Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest, With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast:—
Thou hast left behind Powers that will work for thee; air, earth, and skies; There's not a breathing of the common wind That will forget thee; thou hast great allies; Thy friends are exultations, agonies, And love, and man's unconquerable mind.
'But they are dead; those two are dead! Their spirits are in heaven!' 'Twas throwing words away; for still The little maid would have her will, And said, 'Nay, we are seven!'
In the faith that looks through death, In years that bring the philosophic mind.
Who is the happy Warrior? Who is he That every man in arms should wish to be? It is the generous spirit, who, when brought Among the tasks of real life, hath wrought Upon the plan that pleased his boyish thought: Whose high endeavors are an inward light That makes the path before him always bright: Who, with a natural instinct to discern What knowledge can perform, is diligent to learn; And in himself posses his own desire;
And, when she took unto herself a Mate, She must espouse the everlasting Sea.
The light that never was, on sea or land, The consecration, and the Poet's dream;
Choice word and measured phrase, above the reach Of ordinary men; a stately speech; Such as grave livers do in Scotland use,
A deep distress hath humanized my Soul.
The rapt One, of the godlike forehead, The heaven-eyed creature sleeps in earth: And Lamb, the frolic and the gentle, Has vanished from his lonely hearth.
I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous boy, The sleepless soul that perished in his pride; Of him who walked in glory and in joy Following his plough, along the mountain side: By our own spirits are we deified: We poets in our youth begin in gladness; But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.
Our haughty life is crowned with darkness, Like London with its own black wreath,
But how can he expect that others should Build for him, sow for him, and at his call Love him, who for himself will take no heed at all?
No master spirit, no determined road; But equally a want of books and men!
And mighty poets in their misery dead.
Great men have been among us; hands that penn'd And tongues that utter'd wisdom—better none:
The good old rule Sufficeth them, the simple plan, That they should take, who have the power, And they should keep who can.
Milton, in his hand The thing became a trumpet;
Scorn not the sonnet; critic, you have frowned, Mindless of its just honors; with this key Shakespeare unlocked his heart;
I traveled among unknown men, In lands beyond the sea; Nor, England! did I know till then What love I bore to thee.
—I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds With coldness still returning; Alas! the gratitude of men Hath oftener left me mourning.
The thought of our past years in me doth breed Perpetual benediction.
That neither present time, nor years unborn Could to my sight that heavenly face restore.
To me the meanest flower that blows can give Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind— But how could I forget thee?
Give all thou canst; high Heaven rejects the lore Of nicely-calculated less or more.
Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year; And worshipp'st at the Temple's inner shrine, God being with thee when we know it not.
My apprehensions come in crowds; I dread the rustling of the grass; The very shadows of the clouds Have power to shake me as they pass:
Where art thou, my beloved Son, Where art thou, worse to me than dead?
I travelled among unknown men, In lands beyond the sea; Nor, England! did I know till then What love I bore to thee.
Not Chaos, not The darkest pit of lowest Erebus, Nor aught of blinder vacancy, scooped out By help of dreams can breed such fear and awe As fall upon us often when we look Into our Minds, into the Mind of Man.
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;
Neither evil tongues, Rash judgements, nor the sneers of selfish men, Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all The dreary intercourse of daily life, Shall e'er prevail against us.
the Mind of Man— My haunt, and the main region of my song.
The good die first And they whose hearts are dry as summer dust Burn to the socket.
in the mind of man, A motion and a spirit, that impels All thinking things, all objects of all thought, And rolls through all things.
I heard among the solitary hills Low breathings coming after me,
That blessed mood In which the burthen of the mystery, In which the heavy and the weary weight Of all this unintelligible world Is lightened.
the soul, Remembering how she felt, but what she felt Remembering not, retains an obscure sense Of possible sublimity,
many and many a day he thither went, And never lifted up a single stone.
Caught by the spectacle my mind turned round As with the might of waters; an apt type This label seemed of the utmost we can know, Both of ourselves and of the universe; And, on the shape of that unmoving man, His steadfast face and sightless eyes, I gazed, As if admonished from another world.
Not in Utopia,—subterranean Fields,— Or some secreted Island, Heaven knows where! But in the very world, which is the world Of all of us,—the place where in the end We find our happiness, or not at all!
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