I A Traveler on the skirt of Sarum's PlainPursued his vagrant way, with feet half bare;Stooping his gait, but not as if to gainHelp from the staff he bore; for mien and airWere hardy, though his cheek seemed worn with careBoth of the time to come, and time long fled:Down fell in straggling locks his thin grey hair;A coat he wore of military redBut faded, and stuck o'er with … [Read more...] about Incidents Upon Salisbury Plain Or Guilt And Sorrow, By: William Wordsworth
Incident Characteristic Of A Favorite Dog, By: William Wordsworth
On his morning rounds the MasterGoes to learn how all things fare;Searches pasture after pasture,Sheep and cattle eyes with care;And, for silence or for talk,He hath comrades in his walk;Four dogs, each pair of different breed,Distinguished two for scent, and two for speed. See a hare before him started!Off they fly in earnest chase;Every dog is eager-hearted,All the four … [Read more...] about Incident Characteristic Of A Favorite Dog, By: William Wordsworth
Incident At Bruges, By: William Wordsworth
In Bruges town is many a streetWhence busy life hath fled;Where, without hurry, noiseless feetThe grass-grown pavement tread.There heard we, halting in the shadeFlung from a Convent-tower,A harp that tuneful prelude madeTo a voice of thrilling power. The measure, simple truth to tell,Was fit for some gay throng;Though from the same grim turret fellThe shadow and the … [Read more...] about Incident At Bruges, By: William Wordsworth
In These Fair Vales Hath Many A Tree, By: William Wordsworth
In these fair vales hath many a TreeAt Wordsworth's suit been spared;And from the builder's hand this Stone,For some rude beauty of its own,Was rescued by the Bard:So let it rest; and time will comeWhen here the tender-heartedMay heave a gentle sigh for him,As one of the departed. … [Read more...] about In These Fair Vales Hath Many A Tree, By: William Wordsworth
In The Woods Of Rydal, By: William Wordsworth
Wild Redbreast! hadst thou at Jemima's lipPecked, as at mine, thus boldly, Love might say,A half-blown rose had tempted thee to sipIts glistening dews; but hallowed is the clayWhich the Muse warms; and I, whose head is grey,Am not unworthy of thy fellowship;Nor could I let one thought, one notion slipThat might thy sylvan confidence betray.For are we not all His without whose … [Read more...] about In The Woods Of Rydal, By: William Wordsworth