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William Wordsworth (1770-1850 / Cumberland / England)
Poems of William Wordsworth
| 381. | Written With a Pencil Upon a Stone In The Wall of The House, On The Island at Grasmere | 12/31/2002 |
| 382. | Yarrow Revisited | 1/1/2004 |
| 383. | Yarrow Unvisited | 1/1/2004 |
| 384. | Yarrow Visited | 1/3/2003 |
| 385. | Yes! Thou Art Fair, Yet Be Not Moved | 4/5/2010 |
| 386. | Yes, It Was The Mountain Echo | 4/5/2010 |
| 387. | Yew-Trees | 4/5/2010 |
| 388. | Young England--What Is Then Become Of Old | 4/5/2010 |
The Trosachs
THERE 's not a nook within this solemn Pass,
But were an apt confessional for one
Taught by his summer spent, his autumn gone,
That Life is but a tale of morning grass
Wither'd at eve. From scenes of art which chase
That thought away, turn, and with watchful eyes
Feed it 'mid Nature's old felicities,
Rocks, rivers, and smooth lakes more clear than glass
Untouch'd, unbreathed upon. Thrice happy quest,
