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William Wordsworth 1770-1850

Born Cockermouth, Cumbria, England.

 

Poet

The Daffodils     

 

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

  Out-did 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.

Composed Upon Westminster Bridge, September 3, 1802     

 

Earth has not anything to show 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 splendour, 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!

 

We Are Seven     

 

--A simple child,

That lightly draws its breath,

And feels its life in every limb,

What should it know of death?

 

I met a little cottage girl:

She was eight years old, she said;

Her hair was thick with many a curl

That clustered round her head.

 

She had a rustic, woodland air,

And she was wildly clad:

Her eyes were fair, and very fair;

--Her beauty made me glad.

 

"Sisters and brothers, little maid,

How many may you be?"

"How many? Seven in all," she said,

And wondering looked at me.

 

"And where are they? I pray you tell."

She answered, "Seven are we;

And two of us at Conway dwell,

And two are gone to sea.

 

"Two of us in the churchyard lie,

My sister and my brother;

And, in the churchyard cottage, I

Dwell near them with my mother."

 

"You say that two at Conway dwell,

nd two are gone to sea,

Yet ye are seven! I pray you tell,

Sweet maid, how this may be."

 

Then did the little maid reply,

"Seven boys and girls are we;

Two of us in the churchyard lie,

Beneath the churchyard tree."

 

"You run about, my little maid,

Your limbs they are alive;

If two are in the churchyard laid,

Then ye are only five."

 

"Their graves are green, they may be seen,"

The little maid replied,

"Twelve steps or more from my mother's door,

And they are side by side.

 

"My stockings there I often knit,

My kerchief there I hem;

And there upon the ground I sit,

And sing a song to them.

 

"And often after sunset, sir,

When it is light and fair,

I take my little porringer,

And eat my supper there.

 

"The first that died was sister Jane;

In bed she moaning lay,

Till God released her of her pain;

And then she went away.

 

"So in the churchyard she was laid;

And, when the grass was dry,

Together round her grave we played,

My brother John and I.

 

"And when the ground was white with snow

And I could run and slide,

My brother John was forced to go,

And he lies by her side."

 

"How many are you, then," said I,

"If they two are in heaven?"

Quick was the little maid's reply,

"O master! we are seven."

 

"But they are dead; those two are dead!

Their spirits are in heaven!"

'Twas throwing words away; for still

The little maid would have her will,

And said, "Nay, we are seven!"

The Kitten and The Falling Leaves     

 

See the kitten on the wall, sporting with the leaves that fall,

Withered leaves—one—two—and three, from the lofty elder-tree!

Through the calm and frosty air, of this morning bright and fair . . .

—But the kitten, how she starts; Crouches, stretches, paws, and darts!

 

First at one, and then its fellow, just as light and just as yellow;

There are many now—now one—now they stop and there are none;

What intenseness of desire, in her upward eye of fire!

 

With a tiger-leap half way, now she meets the coming prey,

Lets it go as fast, and then, has it in her power again:

Now she works with three or four, like an Indian Conjuror;

Quick as he in feats of art, far beyond in joy of heart.

Perfect Woman     

 

She was a phantom of delight

When first she gleam'd upon my sight;

A lovely apparition, sent

To be a moment's ornament;

Her eyes as stars of twilight fair;

Like twilight's, too, her dusky hair;

But all things else about her drawn

From May-time and the cheerful dawn;

A dancing shape, an image gay,

To haunt, to startle, and waylay.

 

I saw her upon nearer view,

A Spirit, yet a Woman too!

Her household motions light and free,

And steps of virgin liberty;

A countenance in which did meet

Sweet records, promises as sweet;

A creature not too bright or good

For human nature's daily food;

For transient sorrows, simple wiles,

Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.

 

And now I see with eye serene

The very pulse of the machine;

A being breathing thoughtful breath,

A traveller between life and death;

The reason firm, the temperate will,

Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;

A perfect Woman, nobly plann’d,

To warn, to comfort, and command;

And yet a Spirit still, and bright

With something of angelic light.

 

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 less forlorn;

 

Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;

 

Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn.

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.