Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth

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by William Wordsworth


  And the whole Body of the man did seem

  Like one whom I had met with in a dream;

  Or like a Man from some far region sent;

  To give me human strength, and strong admonishment.

  My former thoughts return’d: the fear that kills; 120

  The hope that is unwilling to be fed;

  Cold, pain, and labour, and all fleshly ills;

  And mighty Poets in their misery dead.

  And now, not knowing what the Old Man had said,

  My question eagerly did I renew,

  ”How is it that you live, and what is it you do?”

  He with a smile did then his words repeat;

  And said, that, gathering Leeches, far and wide

  He travelled; stirring thus about his feet

  The waters of the Ponds where they abide. 130

  ”Once I could meet with them on every side;

  But they have dwindled long by slow decay;

  Yet still I persevere, and find them where I may.”

  While he was talking thus, the lonely place,

  The Old Man’s shape, and speech, all troubled me:

  In my mind’s eye I seem’d to see him pace

  About the weary moors continually,

  Wandering about alone and silently.

  While I these thoughts within myself pursued,

  He, having made a pause, the same discourse renewed. 140

  And soon with this he other matter blended,

  Chearfully uttered, with demeanour kind,

  But stately in the main; and, when he ended,

  I could have laugh’d myself to scorn, to find

  In that decrepit Man so firm a mind.

  ”God,” said I, “be my help and stay secure;

  I’ll think of the Leech-gatherer on the lonely moor.”

  SONNETS.

  PREFATORY SONNET

  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

  Ourselves, no prison is: and hence to me,

  In sundry moods, ‘twas pastime to be bound

  Within the Sonnet’s scanty plot of ground:

  Pleas’d if some Souls (for such there needs must be)

  Who have felt the weight of too much liberty,

  Should find short solace there, as I have found.

  PART THE FIRST.

  MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS

  1.

  How sweet it is, when mother Fancy rocks

  The wayward brain, to saunter through a wood!

  An old place, full of many a lovely brood,

  Tall trees, green arbours, and ground flowers in flocks;

  And Wild rose tip-toe upon hawthorn stocks,

  Like to a bonny Lass, who plays her pranks

  At Wakes and Fairs with wandering Mountebanks,

  When she stands cresting the Clown’s head, and mocks

  The crowd beneath her. Verily I think,

  Such place to me is sometimes like a dream

  Or map of the whole world: thoughts, link by link

  Enter through ears and eyesight, with such gleam

  Of all things, that at last in fear I shrink,

  And leap at once from the delicious stream.

  2.

  Where lies the Land to which yon Ship must go?

  Festively she puts forth in trim array;

  As vigorous as a Lark at break of day:

  Is she for tropic suns, or polar snow?

  What boots the enquiry? Neither friend nor foe

  She cares for; let her travel where she may,

  She finds familiar names, a beaten way

  Ever before her, and a wind to blow.

  Yet still I ask, what Haven is her mark?

  And, almost as it was when ships were rare,

  From time to time, like Pilgrims, here and there

  Crossing the waters; doubt, and something dark,

  Of the old Sea some reverential fear,

  Is with me at thy farewell, joyous Bark!

  COMPOSED AFTER A JOURNEY ACROSS THE HAMILTON HILLS, YORKSHIRE

  Ere we had reach’d the wish’d-for place, night fell:

  We were too late at least by one dark hour,

  And nothing could we see of all that power

  Of prospect, whereof many thousands tell.

  The western sky did recompence us well

  With Grecian Temple, Minaret, and Bower;

  And, in one part, a Minster with its Tower

  Substantially distinct, a place for Bell

  Or Clock to toll from. Many a glorious pile

  Did we behold, sights that might well repay

  All disappointment! and, as such, the eye

  Delighted in them; but we felt, the while,

  We should forget them: they are of the sky,

  And from our earthly memory fade away.

  THEY ARE OF THE SKY

  ….they are of the sky,

  And from our earthly memory fade away.

  These words were utter’d in a pensive mood,

  Even while mine eyes were on that solemn sight:

  A contrast and reproach to gross delight,

  And life’s unspiritual pleasures daily woo’d!

  But now upon this thought I cannot brood:

  It is unstable, and deserts me quite;

  Nor will I praise a Cloud, however bright,

  Disparaging Man’s gifts, and proper food.

  The Grove, the sky-built Temple, and the Dome,

  Though clad in colours beautiful and pure,

  Find in the heart of man no natural home:

  The immortal Mind craves objects that endure:

  These cleave to it; from these it cannot roam,

  Nor they from it: their fellowship is secure.

  TO SLEEP

  O gentle Sleep! do they belong to thee,

  These twinklings of oblivion? Thou dost love

  To sit in meekness, like the brooding Dove,

  A Captive never wishing to be free.

  This tiresome night, O Sleep! thou art to me

  A Fly, that up and down himself doth shove

  Upon a fretful rivulet, now above,

  Now on the water vex’d with mockery.

  I have no pain that calls for patience, no;

  Hence am I cross and peevish as a child:

  Am pleas’d by fits to have thee for my foe,

  Yet ever willing to be reconciled:

  O gentle Creature! do not use me so,

  But once and deeply let me be beguiled.

  TO SLEEP

  A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by,

  One after one; the sound of rain, and bees

  Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas,

  Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky;

  I’ve thought of all by turns; and still I lie

  Sleepless; and soon the small birds’ melodies

  Must hear, first utter’d from my orchard trees;

  And the first Cuckoo’s melancholy cry.

  Even thus last night, and two nights more, I lay,

  And could not win thee, Sleep! by any stealth:

  So do not let me wear to night away:

  Without Thee what is all the morning’s wealth?

  Come, blessed barrier betwixt day and day,

  Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!

  TO SLEEP

  Fond words have oft been spoken to thee, Sleep!

  And thou hast had thy store of tenderest names;

  The very sweetest words that fancy frames

  When thankfulness of heart is strong and deep!
/>   Dear bosom Child we call thee, that dost steep

  In rich reward all suffering; Balm that tames

  All anguish; Saint that evil thoughts and aims

  Takest away, and into souls dost creep,

  Like to a breeze from heaven. Shall I alone;

  I surely not a man ungently made,

  Call thee worst Tyrant by which Flesh is crost?

  Perverse, self-will’d to own and to disown,

  Mere Slave of them who never for thee pray’d,

  Still last to come where thou art wanted most!

  WITH SHIPS THE SEA WAS SPRINKLED FAR AND NIGH

  With Ships the sea was sprinkled far and nigh,

  Like stars in heaven, and joyously it showed;

  Some lying fast at anchor in the road,

  Some veering up and down, one knew not why.

  A goodly Vessel did I then espy

  Come like a Giant from a haven broad;

  And lustily along the Bay she strode,

  Her tackling rich, and of apparel high.

  This Ship was nought to me, nor I to her,

  Yet I pursued her with a Lover’s look;

  This Ship to all the rest did I prefer:

  When will she turn, and whither? She will brook

  No tarrying; where she comes the winds must stir:

  On went She, and due north her journey took.

  TO THE RIVER DUDDON

  O mountain Stream! the Shepherd and his Cot

  Are privileg’d Inmates of deep solitude:

  Nor would the nicest Anchorite exclude

  A Field or two of brighter green, or Plot

  Of tillage-ground, that seemeth like a spot

  Of stationary sunshine: thou hast view’d

  These only, Duddon! with their paths renew’d

  By fits and starts, yet this contents thee not.

  Thee hath some awful Spirit impell’d to leave,

  Utterly to desert, the haunts of men,

  Though simple thy Companions were and few;

  And through this wilderness a passage cleave

  Attended but by thy own Voice, save when

  The Clouds and Fowls of the air thy way pursue.

  FROM THE ITALIAN OF MICHAEL ANGELO

  Yes! hope may with my strong desire keep pace,

  And I be undeluded, unbetray’d;

  For if of our affections none find grace

  In sight of Heaven, then, wherefore hath God made

  The world which we inhabit? Better plea

  Love cannot have, than that in loving thee

  Glory to that eternal Peace is paid,

  Who such Divinity to thee imparts

  As hallows and makes pure all gentle hearts.

  His hope is treacherous only whose love dies

  With beauty, which is varying every hour;

  But, in chaste hearts uninfluenced by the power

  Of outward change, there blooms a deathless flower,

  That breathes on earth the air of paradise.

  FROM THE SAME

  No mortal object did these eyes behold

  When first they met the placid light of thine,

  And my Soul felt her destiny divine,

  And hope of endless peace in me grew bold:

  Heav’n-born, the Soul a heav’n-ward course must hold;

  Beyond the visible world She soars to seek,

  For what delights the sense is false and weak,

  Ideal Form, the universal mould.

  The wise man, I affirm, can find no rest

  In that which perishes: nor will he lend

  His heart to aught which doth on time depend.

  ’Tis sense, unbridled will, and not true love,

  Which kills the soul: Love betters what is best,

  Even here below, but more in heaven above.

  TO THE SUPREME BEING

  The prayers I make will then be sweet indeed

  If Thou the spirit give by which I pray:

  My unassisted heart is barren clay,

  Which of its native self can nothing feed:

  Of good and pious works thou art the seed,

  Which quickens only where thou say’st it may:

  Unless thou shew to us thine own true way

  No man can find it: Father! thou must lead.

  Do Thou, then, breathe those thoughts into my mind

  By which such virtue may in me be bred

  That in thy holy footsteps I may tread;

  The fetters of my tongue do Thou unbind,

  That I may have the power to sing of thee,

  And sound thy praises everlastingly.

  CALM IS ALL NATURE AS A RESTING WHEEL

  Written in very early Youth.

  Calm is all nature as a resting wheel.

  The Kine are couch’d upon the dewy grass;

  The Horse alone, seen dimly as I pass,

  Is up, and cropping yet his later meal:

  Dark is the ground; a slumber seems to steal

  O’er vale, and mountain, and the starless sky.

  Now, in this blank of things, a harmony

  Home-felt, and home-created seems to heal

  That grief for which the senses still supply

  Fresh food; for only then, when memory

  Is hush’d, am I at rest. My Friends, restrain

  Those busy cares that would allay my pain:

  Oh! leave me to myself; nor let me feel

  The officious touch that makes me droop again.

  COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE

  Sept. 3, 1803.

  Earth has not any thing to shew more fair:

  Dull would he be of soul who could pass by

  A sight so touching in it’s 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 splendor 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!

  BELOVED VALE!

  ”Beloved Vale!” I said, “when I shall con

  Those many records of my childish years,

  Remembrance of myself and of my peers

  Will press me down: to think of what is gone

  Will be an awful thought, if life have one.”

  But, when into the Vale I came, no fears

  Distress’d me; I look’d round, I shed no tears;

  Deep thought, or awful vision, I had none.

  By thousand petty fancies I was cross’d,

  To see the Trees, which I had thought so tall,

  Mere dwarfs; the Brooks so narrow, Fields so small.

  A Juggler’s Balls old Time about him toss’d;

  I looked, I stared, I smiled, I laughed; and all

  The weight of sadness was in wonder lost.

  METHOUGHT I SAW THE FOOTSTEPS OF A THRONE

  Methought I saw the footsteps of a throne

  Which mists and vapours from mine eyes did shroud,

  Nor view of him who sate thereon allow’d;

  But all the steps and ground about were strown

  With sights the ruefullest that flesh and bone

  Ever put on; a miserable crowd,

  Sick, hale, old, young, who cried before that cloud,

  ”Thou art our king, O Death! to thee we groan.”

  I seem’d to mount those steps; the vapours gave

  Smooth way; and I beheld the face of one

  Sleeping alone within a mossy cave,

  With her face up to heaven; that seem’d to have

  Pleasing remembrance of a thought foregone;

  A lovely Beauty in a summer grav
e!

  TO THE — —

  Lady! the songs of Spring were in the grove

  While I was framing beds for winter flowers;

  While I was planting green unfading bowers,

  And shrubs to hang upon the warm alcove,

  And sheltering wall; and still, as fancy wove

  The dream, to time and nature’s blended powers

  I gave this paradise for winter hours,

  A labyrinth Lady! which your feet shall rove.

  Yes! when the sun of life more feebly shines,

  Becoming thoughts, I trust, of solemn gloom

  Or of high gladness you shall hither bring;

  And these perennial bowers and murmuring pines

  Be gracious as the music and the bloom

  And all the mighty ravishment of Spring.

  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 every thing, 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 coming from the sea;

  Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.

  IT IS A BEAUTEOUS EVENING, CALM AND FREE

  It is a beauteous Evening, calm and free;

  The holy time is quiet as a Nun

  Breathless with adoration; the broad sun

  Is sinking down in its tranquillity;

  The gentleness of heaven is on the Sea:

  Listen! the mighty Being is awake

  And doth with his eternal motion make

  A sound like thunder — everlastingly.

  Dear Child! dear Girl! that walkest with me here,

  If thou appear’st untouch’d by solemn thought,

  Thy nature is not therefore less divine:

 

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