William Wordsworth: Всі вірші поета

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The Forsaken

The peace which others seek they find;

The heaviest storms not longest last;

Heaven grants even to the guiltiest mind

An amnesty for what is past;

When will my sentence be reversed?

I only pray to know the worst;

And wish as if my heart would burst.

O weary struggle! silent year

by William Wordsworth

A Night-Piece

———The sky is overcast

With a continuous cloud of texture close,

Heavy and wan, all whitened by the Moon,

Which through that veil is indistinctly seen,

A dull, contracted circle, yielding light

So feebly spread, that not a shadow falls,

Chequering the ground—from rock, plant, tree, or tower.

At length a pleasant instantaneous gleam

by William Wordsworth

September, 1819

Departing summer hath assumed

An aspect tenderly illumed,

The gentlest look of spring;

That calls from yonder leafy shade

Unfaded, yet prepared to fade,

A timely carolling.

No faint and hesitating trill,

Such tribute as to winter chill

by William Wordsworth

Ode to Duty

. Stern Daughter of the Voice of God!

O Duty! if that name thou love

Who art a light to guide, a rod

To check the erring, and reprove;

Thou, who art victory and law

When empty terrors overawe;

From vain temptations dost set free;

And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity!

by William Wordsworth

Yarrow Unvisited

. From Stirling castle we had seen

The mazy Forth unravelled;

Had trod the banks of Clyde, and Tay,

And with the Tweed had travelled;

And when we came to Clovenford,

Then said my "winsome Marrow ,"

"Whate'er betide, we'll turn aside,

And see the Braes of Yarrow."

by William Wordsworth

'Tis Said, That Some Have Died For Love

'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,

His love was such a grievous pain.

And there is one whom I five years have known;

He dwells alone

Upon Helvellyn's side:

by William Wordsworth

A Poet! He Hath Put His Heart To School

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.

Thy Art be Nature; the live current quaff,

And let the groveller sip his stagnant pool,

In fear that else, when Critics grave and cool

Have killed him, Scorn should write his epitaph.

by William Wordsworth

A Character

I marvel how Nature could ever find space

For so many strange contrasts in one human face:

There's thought and no thought, and there's paleness and bloom

And bustle and sluggishness, pleasure and gloom.

There's weakness, and strength both redundant and vain;

Such strength as, if ever affliction and pain

Could pierce through a temper that's soft to disease,

Would be rational peace—a philosopher's ease.

by William Wordsworth

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 loved looked every day

Fresh as a rose in June,

I to her cottage bent my way,

Beneath an evening-moon.

by William Wordsworth

From The Cuckoo And The Nightingale

The God of Love—"ah, benedicite!"

How mighty and how great a Lord is he!

For he of low hearts can make high, of high

He can make low, and unto death bring nigh;

And hard-hearts he can make them kind and free.

Within a little time, as hath been found,

by William Wordsworth

Written in London September, 1802

O Friend! I know not which way I must look

For comfort, being, as I am, opprest,

To think that now our life is only drest

For show; mean handy-work of craftsman, cook,

Or groom! — We must run glittering like a brook

In the open sunshine, or we are unblest:

The wealthiest man among us is the best:

No grandeur now in nature or in book

by William Wordsworth

I Travelled among Unknown Men

I travelled among unknown men,

In lands beyond the sea;

Nor, England! did I know till then

What love I bore to thee.

'Tis past, that melancholy dream!

Nor will I quit thy shore

A second time; for still I seem

To love thee more and more.

by William Wordsworth