Poetry Catalog

Young England—what is then become of OldOf dear Old England? Think they she is dead,Dead to the very name? Presumption fedOn empty air! That name will keep its holdIn the true filial bosom’s inmost foldFor ever.—The Spirit of Alfred, at the headOf all who for her rights watch’d, toil’d and bled,Knows that this prophecy is not too bold.What—how! shall she submit in will and … [Read more...] about Young England – What Is Then Become Of Old, By: William Wordsworth

There is a Yew-tree, pride of Lorton Vale,Which to this day stands single, in the midstOf its own darkness, as it stood of yore:Not loth to furnish weapons for the bandsOf Umfraville or Percy ere they marchedTo Scotland's heaths; or those that crossed the seaAnd drew their sounding bows at Azincour,Perhaps at earlier Crecy, or Poictiers.Of vast circumference and gloom … [Read more...] about Yew-Trees, By: William Wordsworth

Yes, it was the mountain Echo,Solitary, clear, profound,Answering to the shouting Cuckoo,Giving to her sound for sound! Unsolicited replyTo a babbling wanderer sent;Like her ordinary cry,Like—but oh, how different! Hears not also mortal Life?Hear not we, unthinking Creatures!Slaves of folly, love, or strife—Voices of two different natures? Have not we too?—yes, we … [Read more...] about Yes, It Was The Mountain Echo, By: William Wordsworth

Yes! thou art fair, yet be not movedTo scorn the declaration,That sometimes I in thee have lovedMy fancy’s own creation. Imagination needs must stir;Dear Maid, this truth believe,Minds that have nothing to conferFind little to perceive. Be pleased that nature made thee fitTo feed my heart’s devotion,By laws to which all Forms submitIn sky, air, earth, and ocean. … [Read more...] about Yes! Thou Art Fair, Yet Be Not Moved, By: William Wordsworth

And is this—Yarrow?—This the StreamOf 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! Yet why?—a silvery current flowsWith uncontrolled meanderings;Nor have these eyes by greener hillsBeen soothed, in all my … [Read more...] about Yarrow Visited. September, 1814, By: William Wordsworth