A Parsonage In Oxfordshire Poem by William Wordsworth
A Parsonage In Oxfordshire
Where holy ground begins, unhallowed ends,
Is marked by no distinguishable line;
The turf unites, the pathways intertwine;
And, wheresoe'er the stealing footstep tends,
Garden, and that domain where kindred, friends,
And neighbours rest together, here confound
Their several features, mingled like the sound
Of many waters, or as evening blends
With shady night. Soft airs, from shrub and flower,
Waft fragrant greetings to each silent grave;
And while those lofty poplars gently wave
Their tops, between them comes and goes a sky
Bright as the glimpses of eternity,
To saints accorded in their mortal hour.
Waft fragrant greetings to each silent grave; And while those lofty poplars gently wave...This philosophic poem echoes with much brilliance and we feel the bright glimpse of eternity. An excellent poem is well penned.
Nature Poet's simple but sincerely depicted Oxfordshire is still surpassing sonnets of this kind sure!
'Bright as the glimpses of eternity, To saints accorded in their mortal hour.' - So nicely said!
Their tops, between them comes and goes a sky Bright as the glimpses of eternity, To saints accorded in their mortal hour. //Oxfordshire is a landlocked county in South East England where the Clergy house which brought the bright as the glimpses of eternity to the pure souls to make the saints!
And while those lofty poplars gently wave Their tops, between them comes and goes a sky Bright as the glimpses of eternity, To saints accorded in their mortal hour. The great Wordsworth
Pathways of the truth! ! ! ! Thanks for sharing this poem with us.
holy and unhallowed ground unite at no distinguishable line, the turf unites and intertwines. This makes me think Wordsworth was saying the difference between holy beings and mere mortal beings is confounded. They mingle like the sound of many waters or as evening blends with shady night. I am like God and God like me. I am as large as God, He is as small as I. He cannot above me, nor I beneath him be. Maybe, we are all eternal and holy in some way.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/16/2024 12:56:22 AM # 1.0.0.1119
A Parsonage In Oxfordshire Where holy ground begins, unhallowed ends, Is marked by no distinguishable line; The turf unites, the pathways intertwine; And, wheresoe'er the stealing footstep tends, Garden, and that domain where kindred, friends, And neighbours rest together, here confound Their several features, mingled like the sound Of many waters, or as evening blends With shady night. Soft airs, from shrub and flower, Waft fragrant greetings to each silent grave; And while those lofty poplars gently wave Their tops, between them comes and goes a sky Bright as the glimpses of eternity, To saints accorded in their mortal hour. .....I can feel the essence of peace coming through in this write...enjoyed..