William Wordsworth - poems

[Pages:1089]Classic Poetry Series

William Wordsworth - poems -

Publication Date: 2004

Publisher: - The World's Poetry Archive

William Wordsworth(1770-1850)

Wordsworth, born in his beloved Lake District, was the son of an attorney. He went to school first at Penrith and then at Hawkshead Grammar school before studying, from 1787, at St John's College, Cambridge - all of which periods were later to be described vividly in The Prelude. In 1790 he went with friends on a walking tour to France, the Alps and Italy, before arriving in France where Wordsworth was to spend the next year.

Whilst in France he fell in love twice over: once with a young French woman, Annette Vallon, who subsequently bore him a daughter, and then, once more, with the French Revolution. Returning to England he wrote, and left unpublished, his Letter to the Bishop of Llandaff - a tract in support of the French Revolutionary cause. In 1795, after receiving a legacy, Wordsworth lived with his sister Dorothy first in Dorset and then at Alfoxden, Dorset, close to Coleridge.

In these years he wrote many of his greatest poems and also travelled with Coleridge and Dorothy, in the winter of 1798-79, to Germany. Two years later the second and enlarged edition of the Lyrical Ballads appeared in 1801, just one year before Wordsworth married Mary Hutchinson. This was followed, in 1807, by the publication of Poems in Two Volumes, which included the poems 'Resolution and Independence' and 'Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood'.

During this period he also made new friendships with Walter Scott, Sir G. Beaumont and De Quincy, wrote such poems as 'Elegaic Stanzas suggested by a Picture of Peele Castle' (1807), and fathered five children. He received a civil list pension in 1842 and was made poet-laureate just one year later.

Today Wordsworth's poetry remains widely read. Its almost universal appeal is perhaps best explained by Wordsworth's own words on the role, for him, of poetry; what he called "the most philosophical of all writing" whose object is "truth...carried alive into the heart by passion".

- The World's Poetry Archive

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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.

There's indifference, alike when he fails or succeeds, And attention full ten times as much as there needs; Pride where there's no envy, there's so much of joy; And mildness, and spirit both forward and coy.

There's freedom, and sometimes a diffident stare Of shame scarcely seeming to know that she's there, There's virtue, the title it surely may claim, Yet wants heaven knows what to be worthy the name.

This picture from nature may seem to depart, Yet the Man would at once run away with your heart; And I for five centuries right gladly would be Such an odd such a kind happy creature as he.

William Wordsworth

- The World's Poetry Archive

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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! Now, for that consecrated fount Of murmuring, sparkling, living love, What have I? Shall I dare to tell? A comfortless and hidden well.

A well of love--it may be deep-I trust it is,--and never dry: What matter? If the waters sleep In silence and obscurity. --Such change, and at the very door Of my fond heart, hath made me poor.

William Wordsworth

- The World's Poetry Archive

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A Fact, And An Imagination, Or, Canute And Alfred,

On The Seashore

THE Danish Conqueror, on his royal chair, Mustering a face of haughty sovereignty, To aid a covert purpose, cried--'O ye Approaching Waters of the deep, that share With this green isle my fortunes, come not where Your Master's throne is set.'--Deaf was the Sea; Her waves rolled on, respecting his decree Less than they heed a breath of wanton air. --Then Canute, rising from the invaded throne, Said to his servile Courtiers,--'Poor the reach, The undisguised extent, of mortal sway! He only is a King, and he alone Deserves the name (this truth the billows preach) Whose everlasting laws, sea, earth, and heaven, obey.' This just reproof the prosperous Dane Drew, from the influx of the main, For some whose rugged northern mouths would strain At oriental flattery; And Canute (fact more worthy to be known) From that time forth did for his brows disown The ostentatious symbol of a crown; Esteeming earthly royalty Contemptible as vain. Now hear what one of elder days, Rich theme of England's fondest praise, Her darling Alfred, 'might' have spoken; To cheer the remnant of his host When he was driven from coast to coast, Distressed and harassed, but with mind unbroken: 'My faithful followers, lo! the tide is spent That rose, and steadily advanced to fill The shores and channels, working Nature's will Among the mazy streams that backward went, And in the sluggish pools where ships are pent: And now, his task performed, the flood stands still, At the green base of many an inland hill, In placid beauty and sublime content!

- The World's Poetry Archive

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Such the repose that sage and hero find; Such measured rest the sedulous and good Of humbler name; whose souls do, like the flood Of Ocean, press right on; or gently wind, Neither to be diverted nor withstood, Until they reach the bounds by Heaven assigned.'

William Wordsworth

- The World's Poetry Archive

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A Farewell

FAREWELL, thou little Nook of mountain-ground, Thou rocky corner in the lowest stair Of that magnificent temple which doth bound One side of our whole vale with grandeur rare; Sweet garden-orchard, eminently fair, The loveliest spot that man hath ever found, Farewell!--we leave thee to Heaven's peaceful care, Thee, and the Cottage which thou dost surround.

Our boat is safely anchored by the shore, And there will safely ride when we are gone; The flowering shrubs that deck our humble door Will prosper, though untended and alone: Fields, goods, and far-off chattels we have none: These narrow bounds contain our private store Of things earth makes, and sun doth shine upon; Here are they in our sight--we have no more.

Sunshine and shower be with you, bud and bell! For two months now in vain we shall be sought: We leave you here in solitude to dwell With these our latest gifts of tender thought; Thou, like the morning, in thy saffron coat, Bright gowan, and marsh-marigold, farewell! Whom from the borders of the Lake we brought, And placed together near our rocky Well.

We go for One to whom ye will be dear; And she will prize this Bower, this Indian shed, Our own contrivance, Building without peer! --A gentle Maid, whose heart is lowly bred, Whose pleasures are in wild fields gathered, With joyousness, and with a thoughtful cheer, Will come to you; to you herself will wed; And love the blessed life that we lead here.

Dear Spot! which we have watched with tender heed, Bringing thee chosen plants and blossoms blown Among the distant mountains, flower and weed,

- The World's Poetry Archive

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Which thou hast taken to thee as thy own, Making all kindness registered and known; Thou for our sakes, though Nature's child indeed, Fair in thyself and beautiful alone, Hast taken gifts which thou dost little need.

And O most constant, yet most fickle Place, Thou hast thy wayward moods, as thou dost show To them who look not daily on thy face; Who, being loved, in love no bounds dost know, And say'st, when we forsake thee, 'Let them go!' Thou easy-hearted Thing, with thy wild race Of weeds and flowers, till we return be slow, And travel with the year at a soft pace.

Help us to tell Her tales of years gone by, And this sweet spring, the best beloved and best; Joy will be flown in its mortality; Something must stay to tell us of the rest. Here, thronged with primroses, the steep rock's breast Glittered at evening like a starry sky; And in this bush our sparrow built her nest, Of which I sang one song that will not die.

O happy Garden! whose seclusion deep Hath been so friendly to industrious hours; And to soft slumbers, that did gently steep Our spirits, carrying with them dreams of flowers, And wild notes warbled among leafy bowers; Two burning months let summer overleap, And, coming back with Her who will be ours, Into thy bosom we again shall creep.

William Wordsworth

- The World's Poetry Archive

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