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We had a female Passenger who cameFrom Calais with us, spotless in array,A white-robed Negro, like a lady gay,Yet downcast as a woman fearing blame;Meek, destitute, as seemed, of hope or aimShe sate, from notice turning not away,But on all proffered intercourse did layA weight of languid speech, or to the sameNo sign of answer made by word or face:Yet still her eyes retained … [Read more...] about September 1, 1802, By: William Wordsworth

Scorn not the Sonnet; Critic, you have frowned,Mindless of its just honours; with this keyShakespeare unlocked his heart; the melodyOf this small lute gave ease to Petrarch's wound;A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound;With it Camöens soothed an exile's grief;The Sonnet glittered a gay myrtle leafAmid the cypress with which Dante crownedHis visionary brow: a glow-worm … [Read more...] about Scorn Not The Sonnet, By: William Wordsworth

Say, what is Honour? 'Tis the finest senseOf 'justice' which the human mind can frame,Intent each lurking frailty to disclaim,And guard the way of life from all offenceSuffered or done. When lawless violenceInvades a Realm, so pressed that in the scaleOf perilous war her weightiest armies fail,Honour is hopeful elevation, whenceGlory, and triumph. Yet with politic … [Read more...] about Say, What Is Honour? ‘Tis The Finest Sense, By: William Wordsworth

When Ruth was left half desolate,Her Father took another Mate;And Ruth, not seven years old,A slighted child, at her own willWent wandering over dale and hill,In thoughtless freedom, bold. And she had made a pipe of straw,And music from that pipe could drawLike sounds of winds and floods;Had built a bower upon the green,As if she from her birth had beenAn infant of the … [Read more...] about Ruth, By: William Wordsworth

Sylph was it? or a Bird more brightThan those of fabulous stock?A second darted by; and lo!Another of the flock,Through sunshine flitting from the boughTo nestle in the rock.Transient deception! a gay freakOf April's mimicries!Those brilliant strangers, hailed with joyAmong the budding trees,Proved last year's leaves, pushed from the sprayTo frolic on the breeze. Maternal … [Read more...] about Rural Illusions, By: William Wordsworth