William Wordsworth: Всі вірші поета

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Lucy

She dwelt among the untrodden ways

Beside the springs of Dove,

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.

by William Wordsworth

A Night Thought

Lo! where the Moon along the sky

Sails with her happy destiny;

Oft is she hid from mortal eye

Or dimly seen,

But when the clouds asunder fly

How bright her mien!

Far different we—a froward race,

Thousands though rich in Fortune's grace

by William Wordsworth

She Was A Phantom Of Delight

She was a Phantom of delight

When first she gleamed 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;

by William Wordsworth

London, 1802

Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour:

England hath need of thee: she is a 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.

by William Wordsworth

After-Thought

. I thought of Thee, my partner and my guide,

As being past away.—Vain sympathies!

For, backward, Duddon! as I cast my eyes,

I see what was, and is, and will abide;

Still glides the Stream, and shall for ever glide;

The Form remains, the Function never dies;

While we, the brave, the mighty, and the wise,

We Men, who in our morn of youth defied

by William Wordsworth

The Tables Turned

. Up! up! my Friend, and quit your books;

Or surely you'll grow double:

Up! up! my Friend, and clear your looks;

Why all this toil and trouble?

The sun above the mountain's head,

A freshening lustre mellow

Through all the long green fields has spread,

His first sweet evening yellow.

by William Wordsworth

Lines Composed a Few Miles above Tintern Abbey

Five years have past; five summers, with the length

Of five long winters! and again I hear

These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs

With a soft inland murmur.—Once again

Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs,

That on a wild secluded scene impress

Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect

The landscape with the quiet of the sky.

by William Wordsworth

Nuns Fret Not at Their Convent's Narrow Room

Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room;

And hermits are contented with their cells;

And students with their pensive citadels;

Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom,

Sit blithe and happy; bees that soar for bloom,

High as the highest Peak of Furness-fells,

Will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells:

In truth the prison, unto which we doom

by William Wordsworth

A Complaint

There is a change—and I am poor;

Your love hath been, nor long ago,

A fountain at my fond heart's door,

Whose only business was to flow;

And flow it did; not taking heed

Of its own bounty, or my need.

What happy moments did I count!

Blest was I then all bliss above!

by William Wordsworth

To A Butterfly

STAY near me—-do not take thy flight!

A little longer stay in sight!

Much converse do I find I thee,

Historian of my infancy !

Float near me; do not yet depart!

Dead times revive in thee:

Thou bring'st, gay creature as thou art!

A solemn image to my heart,

by William Wordsworth

The Reverie of Poor Susan

At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears,

Hangs a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years:

Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has heard

In the silence of morning the song of the Bird.

'Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees

A mountain ascending, a vision of trees;

Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide,

And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside.

by William Wordsworth

Simon Lee: The Old Huntsman

. With an incident in which he was concerned

In the sweet shire of Cardigan,

Not far from pleasant Ivor-hall,

An old Man dwells, a little man,—

'Tis said he once was tall.

For five-and-thirty years he lived

A running huntsman merry;

And still the centre of his cheek

by William Wordsworth