The Poetical Works of William Wordsworth

There is a Flower, the lesser Celandine.. 571
There is a little unpretending Rill
There is an Eminence, of these our hills.. 148
There is a pleasure in poetic pains
"There is a Thorn-it looks so old

There is a bondage worse, far worse, to bear 308 They dreamt not of a perishable home
There is a change-and I am poor
The Young-ones gathered in from hill and
dale

III

251

They seek, are sought; to daily battle led..
They-who have seen the noble Roman's

PAGE

501

84

446
439

305

387

426

363

259

463

451

446

320

265

197

"There!" said a Stripling, pointing with
meet pride...

There's George Fisher, Charles Fleming,
and Reginald Shore

This Spot-at once unfolding sight so fair..
Those breathing Tokens of your kind re-

517

236

183

195

587

The Roman Consul doomed his sons to die
The Sabbath bells renew the inviting peal..
The saintly Youth has ceased to rule, dis-
crowned

517

447

Though I beheld at first with blank surprise
Though joy attend Thee orient at the birth
Though many suns have risen and set
Though narrow be that old Man's cares, and

279

391

507

436

These times strike monied worldlings with
dismay

308

"These Tourists, heaven preserve us! needs
must live

95

464

184

Thou sacred Pile! whose turrets rise.
Threats come which no submission may
assuage

341

433

378

457

The sun is couched, the sea-fowl gone to

rest

The Sun, that seemed so mildly to retire
The sylvan slopes with corn-clad fields
The tears of man in various measure gush
The Troop will be impatient; let us hie....
The turbaned Race are poured in thickening

453

498

'Tis eight o'clock,-a clear March night
'Tis gone-with old belief and dream

126

223

swarms

427

'Tis said, fantastic ocean doth unfold..

...

333

550

574

"Twas summer,
high.
Two Voices are there; one is of the sea....

"Tis said that some have died for love..
"Tis said that to the brow of yon fair hill..
'Tis spent-this burning day of June
To a good Man of most dear memory.
To appease the Gods; or public thanks to
yield..

To barren heath, bleak moor, and quaking fen
To kneeling Worshippers no earthly floor..
Too frail to keep the lofty vow
To public notice, with reluctance strong....
Toussaint, the most unhappy man of men..
Tradition, be thou mute! Oblivion, throw..
Tranquillity! the sovereign aim wert thou
Troubled long with warring notions
True is it that Ambrosio Salinero.
and the sun had mounted