Editors

Ye Apennines! with all your fertile valesDeeply embosomed, and your winding shoresOf either sea an Islander by birth,A Mountaineer by habit, would resoundYour praise, in meet accordance with your claimsBestowed by Nature, or from man's great deedsInherited: presumptuous thought! it fledLike vapour, like a towering cloud, dissolved.Not, therefore, shall my mind give way to … [Read more...] about Memorials Of A Tour In Italy, 1837 – I. – Musings Near Aquapendente – April 1837, By: William Wordsworth

If Nature, for a favourite child,In thee hath tempered so her clay,That every hour thy heart runs wild,Yet never once doth go astray, Read o'er these lines; and then reviewThis tablet, that thus humbly rearsIn such diversity of hueIts history of two hundred years. When through this little wreck of fame,Cipher and syllable! thine eyeHas travelled down to Matthew's … [Read more...] about Matthew, By: William Wordsworth

Departed Child! I could forget thee onceThough at my bosom nursed; this woeful gainThy dissolution brings, that in my soulIs present and perpetually abidesA shadow, never, never to be displacedBy the returning substance, seen or touched,Seen by mine eyes, or clasped in my embrace.Absence and death how differ they! and howShall I admit that nothing can restoreWhat one short sigh … [Read more...] about Maternal Grief, By: William Wordsworth

Dear to the Loves, and to the Graces vowed,The Queen drew back the wimple that she wore;And to the throng, that on the Cumbrian shoreHer landing hailed, how touchingly she bowed!And like a Star (that, from a heavy cloudOf pine-tree foliage poised in air, forth darts,When a soft summer gale at evening partsThe gloom that did its loveliness enshroud)She smiled; but Time, the old … [Read more...] about Mary Queen Of Scots – Landing At The Mouth Of The Derwent, Workington, By: William Wordsworth

Mark the concentred hazels that encloseYon old grey Stone, protected from the rayOf noontide suns: and even the beams that playAnd glance, while wantonly the rough wind blows,Are seldom free to touch the moss that growsUpon that roof, amid embowering gloom,The very image framing of a Tomb,In which some ancient Chieftain finds reposeAmong the lonely mountains. Live, ye trees!And … [Read more...] about Mark The Concentrated Hazels That Enclose, By: William Wordsworth