Editors

She was a Phantom of delightWhen first she gleamed upon my sight;A lovely Apparition, sentTo be a moment's ornament;Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair;Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair;But all things else about her drawnFrom May-time and the cheerful Dawn;A dancing Shape, an Image gay,To haunt, to startle, and way-lay.I saw her upon nearer view,A Spirit, yet a Woman too!Her … [Read more...] about She Was A Phantom Of Delight, By: William Wordsworth

She dwelt among the untrodden waysBeside the springs of Dove,Maid whom there were none to praiseAnd very few to love: A violet by a mossy stoneHalf hidden from the eye!Fair as a star, when only oneIs shining in the sky. She lived unknown, and few could knowWhen Lucy ceased to be;But she is in her grave, and, oh,The difference to me! … [Read more...] about She Dwelt Among Untrodden Ways, By: William Wordsworth

Where are they now, those wanton Boys?For whose free range the daedal earthWas filled with animated toys,And implements of frolic mirth;With tools for ready wit to guide;And ornaments of seemlier pride,More fresh, more bright, than princes wear;For what one moment flung aside,Another could repair;What good or evil have they seenSince I their pastime witnessed here,Their daring … [Read more...] about Sequel To The “Beggars,” 1802 – Composed Many Years After, By: William Wordsworth

While not a leaf seems faded; while the fields,With ripening harvest prodigally fair,In brightest sunshine bask; this nipping air,Sent from some distant clime where Winter wieldsHis icy scimitar, a foretaste yieldsOf bitter change, and bids the flowers beware;And whispers to the silent birds, "PrepareAgainst the threatening foe your trustiest shields."For me, who under kindlier … [Read more...] about September 1815, By: William Wordsworth

The sylvan slopes with corn-clad fieldsAre hung, as if with golden shields,Bright trophies of the sun!Like a fair sister of the sky,Unruffled doth the blue lake lie,The mountains looking on. And, sooth to say, yon vocal grove,Albeit uninspired by love,By love untaught to ring,May well afford to mortal earAn impulse more profoundly dearThan music of the Spring. For 'that' … [Read more...] about September 1819, By: William Wordsworth