William Wordsworth

(1770-1850 / Cumberland / England)

Comments about William Wordsworth

  • Vandana (12/12/2017 8:11:00 AM)

    I love this poem

    6 person liked.
    4 person did not like.
  • Hardik (12/11/2017 11:57:00 PM)

    I love. This poem I love you

    6 person liked.
    2 person did not like.
  • parth bisht (12/10/2017 7:51:00 PM)

    superbe

    6 person liked.
    2 person did not like.
  • Shivam (12/6/2017 10:07:00 AM)

    Very nice

    3 person liked.
    2 person did not like.
  • Srishty Kashyap (12/5/2017 11:43:00 AM)

    Thanks

    4 person liked.
    2 person did not like.
  • Prachi (11/26/2017 3:36:00 AM)

    Thanks I was help full for me

    6 person liked.
    2 person did not like.
  • Rajendra Kumar Sahu (11/22/2017 4:24:00 AM)

    I like Nature so I like lovers of Nature like William Wordsworth

    5 person liked.
    2 person did not like.
  • May B (11/20/2017 5:26:00 AM)

    He is my role model.I love his poetry

    4 person liked.
    2 person did not like.
  • maha jawwad (11/19/2017 8:13:00 AM)

    what is this, could'nt understand a thing

    6 person liked.
    3 person did not like.
  • April Anastasia Jackson (11/13/2017 2:54:00 PM)

    I LOVE William's poems! There out of the ordinary. But awesome! Some is about nature and the sun! Soo.... he's my FAVIORITE poet ever! ! ! ! !

    8 person liked.
    2 person did not like.
Best Poem of William Wordsworth

The World Is Too Much With Us; Late And Soon

The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for everything, we are out of tune,
It moves us not.--Great God! I'd rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me...

Read the full of The World Is Too Much With Us; Late And Soon

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,

[Report Error]