Yew-Trees / William Wordsworth

There is a Yew-tree, pride of Lorton Vale,

Which to this day stands single, in the midst

Of its own darkness, as it stood of yore:

Not loathe to furnish weapons for the Bands

Of Umfraville or Percy ere they marched

To Scotland's heaths; or those that crossed the sea

And drew their sounding bows at Azincour,

Perhaps at earlier Crecy, or Poictiers.

Yarrow Visited / William Wordsworth

And is this -Yarrow? -This the stream

Of which my fancy cherished

So faithfully, a waking dream,

An image that hath perished?

O that some minstrel's harp were near

To utter notes of gladness

And chase this silence from the air,

That fills my heart with sadness!

Written in London / William Wordsworth

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:

Written in Early Spring / William Wordsworth

I heard a thousand blended notes

While in a grove I sat reclined,

In that sweet mood 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 grieved my heart to think

What Man has made of Man.

Within King's College Chapel, Cambridge / William Wordsworth

Tax not the royal Saint with vain expense,

With ill-matched aims the architect who planned

(Albeit labouring for a scanty band

Of white-robed scholars only) this immense

And glorious work of fine intelligence!

- Give all thou canst; high heaven rejects the lore

Of nicely-calculated less or more: - 

So deemed the man who fashioned for the sense

When I Have Borne in Memory What Has Tamed / William Wordsworth

When I have borne in memory what has tamed

Great Nations, how ennobling thoughts depart

When men change swords for ledgers, and desert

The student's bower for gold, some fears unnamed

I had, my Country -am I to be blamed?

Now, when I think of thee, and what thou art,

Verily, in the bottom of my heart,

Of those unfilial fears I am ashamed.

We Are Seven / William Wordsworth

 A simple child, dear brother Jim,

  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 cluster'd round her head.

Upon Westminster Bridge / William Wordsworth

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.

To Toussaint L'Ouverture / William Wordsworth

Toussaint, the most unhappy Man of Men!

Whether the whistling Rustic tend his plough

Within thy hearing, or thy head be now

Pillowed in some deep dungeon's earless den; - 

O miserable Chieftain! where and when

Wilt thou find patience? Yet die not; do thou

Wear rather in thy bonds a cheerful brow:

To the Daisy / William Wordsworth

In youth from rock to rock I went,

From hill to hill in discontent

Of pleasure high and turbulent,

Most pleased when most uneasy;

But now my own delights I make, - 

My thirst at every rill can slake,

And gladly Nature's love partake

Of Thee, sweet Daisy!

To the Cuckoo / William Wordsworth

O blithe newcomer! I have heard,

I hear thee and rejoice:

O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird,

Or but a wandering Voice?

While I am lying on the grass

Thy twofold shout I hear;

From hill to hill it seems to pass,

At once far off and near.

To a Skylark / William Wordsworth

Ethereal minstrel! pilgrim of the sky!

Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound?

Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye

Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground?

Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will,

Those quivering wings composed, that music still!

Three Years She Grew in Sun and Shower / William Wordsworth

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.

Thought of a Briton on the Subjugation of Switzerland / William Wordsworth

Two Voices are there -one is of the Sea,

One of the Mountains; each a mighty Voice:

In both from age to age thou didst rejoice;

They were thy chosen music, Liberty!

There came a tyrant, and with holy glee

Thou fought'st against him; but hast vainly striven:

Thou from thy Alpine holds at length art driven

Where not a torrent murmurs heard by thee.

The World Is Too Much With Us; Late and Soon / William Wordsworth

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,

The Two April Mornings / William Wordsworth

We walked along, while bright and red

Uprose the morning sun;

And Matthew stopped, he looked, and said

`The will of God be done!'

A village schoolmaster was he,

With hair of glittering grey;

As blithe a man as you could see

On a spring holiday.

The Thorn / William Wordsworth

 I.

  There is a thorn; it looks so old,

  In truth you'd find it hard to say,

  How it could ever have been young,

  It looks so old and grey.

  Not higher than a two years' child

  It stands erect this aged thorn;

  No leaves it has, no thorny points;

  It is a mass of knotted joints,

  A wretched thing forlorn.

  It stands erect, and like a stone

  With lichens it is overgrown.

The Tables Turned / William Wordsworth

An Evening Scene, on the same Subject

  Up! up! my friend, and clear your looks,

  Why all this toil and trouble?

  Up! up! my friend, and quit your books,

  Or surely you'll grow double.

  The sun, above the mountain's head,

  A freshening lustre mellow

  Through all the long green fields has spread,

  His first sweet evening yellow.

The Sun Has Long Been Set / William Wordsworth

The sun has long been set,

The stars are out by twos and threes,

The little birds are piping yet

Among the bushes and the trees;

There's a cuckoo, and one or two thrushes,

And a far-off wind that rushes,

And a sound of water that gushes,

And the cuckoo's sovereign cry

Fills all the hollow of the sky.

The Reverie of Poor Susan / William Wordsworth

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.