Poetry

Poetry by William Wordsworth

Since the poems by Blake were so popular, I thought I would give you guys a little more poetry. All these are from The Longman Anthology of British Literature Volume B. I had to read these for my British Lit Class, and since the book is like 1500 pages, the paper is so thin that I couldn’t highlight or write in it, so I’ve spent the last hour or so typing them up from the book on a school computer. Since I would lose the data anyway, I figured I’d put it up on here. Enjoy!

Lines Written in Early Spring

I heard a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sate reclined,
In that sweet mod when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

To her fair works did nature link
The human soul that through me ran;
And much it griev’d my heart to think
What man has made of man.

Through primrose-tufts, in that sweet bower,
The periwinkle trail’d its wreathes;
And ‘tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.

The birds around me hopp’d and play’d:
Their thoughts I cannot measure,
But the least motion which they made,
It seem’d a thrill of pleasure.

The budding twigs spread out their fan,
To catch the breezy air;
And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.

If I these thoughts may not prevent,
If I such be of my creed the plan.
Have I not reason to lament
What man has made of man?

 

Song (“She dwelt among th’ untrodden ways”)

She dwelt among th’ untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dove,
A Maid whom there were none to praise
And very few to love:

A Violet by a mossy stone
Half-hidden from the Eye!
—Fair, as a star when only one
Is shining in the sky!

She liv’d unkown, and few could know
When Lucy ceas’d to be;
But she is in her Grave and Oh!
The difference to me!

Strange fits of passion have I known

Strange fits of passion have I known,
And I will dare to tell,
But in the lover’s ear alone,
What once to me befell.

When she I lov’d, was strong and gay
And like a rose in June,
I to her cottage bent my way,
Beneath the evening moon.

Upon the moon I fix’d my eye,
All over the wide lea;
My horse trudg’d on, and we drew nigh
Those paths so dear to me.

And now we reach’d the orchard plot,
And, as we climb’d the hill,
Towards the roof of Lucy’s cot
The moon descended still.

In one of those sweet dreams I slept,
Kind Nature’s gentlest boon!
And, all the while, my eyes I kept
On the descending moon.

My horse mov’d on; hoof after hoof
He rais’d, and never stopp’d:
When down behind the cottage roof
At once the planet dropp’d.

What fond and wayward thoughts will slide
Into a Lover’s head–
“O mercy!” to myself I cried,
“If Lucy should be dead!” 

 

Three years she grew in sun and shower

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
She shall be mine, and I will make
A Lady of my own.

“Myself will to my darling be
Both law and impulse, and with me
The Girl in rock and plain,
In earth and heaven, in glade and bower,
Shall feel an overseeing power
To kindle or restrain.

“She shall be sportive as the fawn
That wild with glee across the lawn
Or up the mountain springs,
And hers shall be the breathing balm,
And hers the silence and the calm
Of mute insensate things.

“the floating clouds their state shall lend
To her; for her the willow bend,
Now shall she fail to see
Even in the motions of the storm
Grace that shall mould the Maiden’s form
By silent sympathy.

“The stars of midnight shall be dear
To her, and she shall lean her ear
In many a secret place
where rivulets dance their wayward round,
And beauty born of murmuring sound
Shall pass into her face.

“And vital feelings of delight
Shall rear her form to stately height,
Her virgin bosom swell,
Such thoughts to Lucy I will give
While she and I together live
Here in this happy dell.”

Thus Nature spake—The work was done—
How soon my Lucy’s race was run!
She died, and left to me
This heath, this calm and quiet scene,
The memory of what has been,
And never more will I be.

The world is too much with us

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!
The 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 less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.

Composed upon Westminster Bridge, Sept 3, 1802

Earth has not anything to shew more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty:
This City now doth like a garment wear
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky;
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Never did sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendor, valley, rock, or hill;
Ne’er saw I, never felt a calm so deep!
The river glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God! The very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still!

It is a beauteous Evening

It is a beauteous Evening, calm and free;
The holy time is quiet as a Nun
Breathless with adoration; the broad sun
Is sinking down in its tranquility;
The gentleness of heaven is on the Sea:
Listen! The mighty Being is awake
And doth with his eternal motion make
A sound like thunder—everlastingly.
Dear Child! Dear Girl! That walkest with me here,
If  thou appear’st untouch’d by solemn thought,
Thy nature is not therefore less divine:
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.

London, 1802

Milton! Thou should’st be living at this hour:
England hath need of thee: she is fen
Of stagnant waters: altar sword and pen,
Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,
Have forfeited their ancient English dower
Of inward happiness. We are selfish men;
Oh! Raise us up, return to us again;
And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.
Thy soul was like a Star and dwelt apart:
Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea;
Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free,
So didst thou travel on life’s common way,
In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart
The lowliest duties on itself did lay.

I wandered lonely as a cloud

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Outdid the sparkling waves in glee:–
A Poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

 

 

My heart leaps up

My heart leaps up when I behold
A Rainbow in the sky:
So was it when my life began;
So is it now I am a Man;
So be it when I shall grow old
Or let me die!
The Child is Father of the Man;
And I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.

Surprized by joy

Surprized by joy—impatient as the Wind
I turned to share the transport—Oh! With whom
But thee, long buries in the silent Tomb,
That spot which no vicissitude can find?
Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind–
But how could I forget thee? Through what power,
Even for the least division of an hour,
Have I been so beguiled as to be blind
To my most grievous loss!—That thought’s return
Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore,
Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn
Knowing my heart’s best treasure was no more;
That neither present time, nor years unborn
Could to my sight that heavenly face restore.

Song (“A slumber did my spirit seal”)

A slumber did my spirit seal;
I had no human fears:
She seem’d a thing that could not feel
The touch of earthly years.

No motion she has now, no force
She neither hears nor sees
Roll’d round in earth’s diurnal course,
With rocks, and stones, and trees.

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Two Poems by William Blake

THE SICK ROSE

O Rose thou art sick.
The invisible worm,
That flies in the night
In the howling storm:

Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy:
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.

The CLOD & the PEBBLE

Love seeketh not Itself to please
Now for itself hath any care;
But for another gives its ease,
And builds a Heaven in Hells despair.

     So sung a little Clod of Clay
     Trodden with the cattles feet.
     But a Pebble of the brook,
     Warbled out these metres meet.

Love seeketh only Self to please
To bind another to Its delight:
Joys in anothers loss of ease,
And builds a Hell in Heavens despite.