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The minstrels played their Christmas tuneTo-night beneath my cottage-eaves;While, smitten by a lofty moon,The encircling laurels, thick with leaves,Gave back a rich and dazzling sheen,That overpowered their natural green. Through hill and valley every breezeHad sunk to rest with folded wings:Keen was the air, but could not freeze,Nor check, the music of the strings;So stout … [Read more...] about Minstrels, By: William Wordsworth

'Night Speaks' Grateful is Sleep, my life in stone bound fast;More grateful still: while wrong and shame shall last,On me can Time no happier state bestowThan to be left unconscious of the woe.Ah then, lest you awaken me, speak low.Grateful is Sleep, more grateful still to beOf marble; for while shameless wrong and woePrevail, 'tis best to neither hear nor see.Then wake me … [Read more...] about Michael Angelo In Reply To The Passage Upon His Staute Of Sleeping Night, By: William Wordsworth

If from the public way you turn your stepsUp the tumultuous brook of Green-head Ghyll,You will suppose that with an upright pathYour feet must struggle; in such bold ascentThe pastoral mountains front you, face to face.But, courage! for around that boisterous brookThe mountains have all opened out themselves,And made a hidden valley of their own.No habitation can be seen; but … [Read more...] about Michael – A Pastoral Poem, By: William Wordsworth

Methought I saw the footsteps of a throneWhich mists and vapours from mine eyes did shroudNor view of who might sit thereon allowed;But all the steps and ground about were strownWith sights the ruefullest that flesh and boneEver put on; a miserable crowd,Sick, hale, old, young, who cried before that cloud,"Thou art our king, O Death! to thee we groan."Those steps I clomb; the … [Read more...] about Methought I Saw The Footsteps Of A Throne, By: William Wordsworth

A pen, to register; a keyThat winds through secret wardsAre well assigned to MemoryBy allegoric Bards. As aptly, also, might be givenA Pencil to her hand;That, softening objects, sometimes evenOutstrips the heart's demand; That smooths foregone distress, the linesOf lingering care subdues,Long-vanished happiness refines,And clothes in brighter hues; Yet, like a tool of … [Read more...] about Memory, By: William Wordsworth