The Poetical Works of William Wordsworth, Volumen8
W. Paterson, 1886
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Términos y frases comunes
ancient appearance beauty birds bright called Church close clouds colour Comp Compare Composed course cross dear death deep earth fair faith Fancy fear feeling fields flowers forms give given grace green ground hand head heard heart Heaven height hill hope human interesting island Italy Lake land leaves less light lines live look memory miles mind morning mountains native Nature never notice objects observed once pass persons plant pleasure poem present Published pure remains rest river road rocks Rydal scenes season seems seen side sight sonnet spirit stands stone stream thee things thou thought traveller trees truth turn Vale valley visited voice walk whole wild winds wish woods Wordsworth written
Página 26 - Mourn rather for that holy Spirit, Sweet as the spring, as ocean deep ; For Her : who, ere her summer faded, Has sunk into a breathless sleep.
Página 311 - No product here the barren hills afford, But man and steel, the soldier and his sword. No vernal blooms their torpid rocks array, But winter lingering chills the lap of May; No zephyr fondly sues the mountain's breast, But meteors glare, and stormy glooms invest.
Página 318 - Of woods decaying, never to be decayed, The stationary blasts of waterfalls, And in the narrow rent at every turn Winds thwarting winds, bewildered and forlorn, The torrents shooting from the clear blue sky, The rocks that muttered close upon our ears, Black drizzling crags that spake by the wayside As if a voice were in them, the sick sight And giddy prospect of the raving stream, The unfettered clouds and region of the Heavens, Tumult and peace, the darkness and the light— Were all like workings...
Página 25 - rapt One, of the godlike forehead, The heaven-eyed creature sleeps in earth : And Lamb, the frolic and the gentle, Has vanished from his lonely hearth. Like clouds that rake the mountain-summits, Or waves that own no curbing hand, How fast has brother followed brother, From sunshine to the sunless land ! Yet I, whose lids from infant slumbers Were earlier raised, remain to hear A timid voice, that asks in whispers, " Who next will drop and disappear...
Página 11 - Yet have my thoughts for thee been vigilant — Bound to thy service with unceasing care, The mind's least generous wish a mendicant For nought but what thy happiness could spare. Speak — though this soft warm heart, once free to hold A thousand tender pleasures, thine and mine, Be left more desolate, more dreary cold Than a forsaken...
Página 158 - Yet mark'd I where the bolt of Cupid fell: It fell upon a little western flower, Before milk-white, now purple with love's wound, And maidens call it Love-in-idleness.
Página 25 - From sign to sign, its stedfast course, Since every mortal power of Coleridge Was frozen at its marvellous source ; The 'rapt One, of the godlike forehead, The heaven-eyed creature sleeps in eartli : And Lamb, the frolic and the gentle, Has vanished from his lonely hearth.
Página 172 - DISCOURSE was deemed Man's noblest attribute, And written words the glory of his hand; Then followed Printing with enlarged command For thought — dominion vast and absolute For spreading truth, and making love expand. Now prose and verse sunk into disrepute Must lacquey a dumb Art that best can suit The taste of this once-intellectual Land. A backward movement surely have we here, From manhood, — back to childhood ; for the age — Back towards caverned life's first rude career.
Página 147 - The degree and kind of attachment which many of the yeomanry feel to their " small inheritances can scarcely be over-rated. Near the house of one of them " stands a magnificent tree, which a neighbour of the owner advised him to fell "for profit's sake. 'Fell it!' exclaimed the yeoman; 'I had rather fall on my
Página 115 - A POET ! — He hath put his heart to school, Nor dares to move unpropped upon the staff Which Art hath lodged within his hand — must laugh By precept only, and shed tears by rule. Thy Art be Nature ; the live current quaff, And let the groveller sip his stagnant pool, In fear that else, when Critics grave and cool Have killed him, Scorn should write his epitaph.* How does the...