William Wordsworth Poems

Art thou a Statist in the van
Of public conflicts trained and bred?
- First learn to love one living man;
'Then' may'st thou think upon the dead.
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The cock is crowing,
The stream is flowing,
The small birds twitter,
The lake doth glitter
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FANCY, who leads the pastimes of the glad,
Full oft is pleased a wayward dart to throw;
Sending sad shadows after things not sad,
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A pen--to register; a key--
That winds through secret wards
Are well assigned to Memory
By allegoric Bards.
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There is an Eminence,--of these our hills
The last that parleys with the setting sun;
We can behold it from our orchard-seat;
And, when at evening we pursue out walk
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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,
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AMONG the dwellings framed by birds
In field or forest with nice care,
Is none that with the little Wren's
In snugness may compare.
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'Tis said, that some have died for love:
And here and there a churchyard grave is found
In the cold north's unhallowed ground,
Because the wretched man himself had slain,
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With ships the sea was sprinkled far and nigh,
Like stars in heaven, and joyously it showed;
Some lying fast at anchor in the road,
Some veering up and down, one knew not why.
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. A poet! - He hath put his heart to school,
Nor dares to move unpropped upon the staff
Which art hath lodged within his hand- must laugh
By precept only, and shed tears by rule.
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