Editors

She wept. Life's purple tide began to flowIn languid streams through every thrilling vein;Dim were my swimming eyes, my pulse beat slow,And my full heart was swell'd to dear delicious pain.Life left my loaded heart, and closing eye;A sigh recall'd the wanderer to my breast;Dear was the pause of life, and dear the sighThat call'd the wanderer home, and home to rest.That tear … [Read more...] about Sonnet: On Seeing Miss Helen Maria Williams Weep At A Tale Of Distress, By: William Wordsworth

It is not to be thought of that the FloodOf British freedom, which, to the open seaOf the world's praise, from dark antiquityHath flowed, "with pomp of waters, unwithstood,"Roused though it be full often to a moodWhich spurns the check of salutary bands,That this most famous Stream in bogs and sandsShould perish; and to evil and to goodBe lost for ever. In our halls is … [Read more...] about Sonnet: “It Is Not To Be Thought Of,” By: William Wordsworth

Affections lose their object; Time brings forthNo successors; and, lodged in memory,If love exist no longer, it must die,Wanting accustomed food, must pass from earth,Or never hope to reach a second birth.This sad belief, the happiest that is leftTo thousands, share not Thou; howe'er bereft,Scorned, or neglected, fear not such a dearth.Though poor and destitute of friends thou … [Read more...] about Sonnet – To An Octogenarian, By: William Wordsworth

Why should we weep or mourn, Angelic boy,For such thou wert ere from our sight removed,Holy, and ever dutiful belovedFrom day to day with never-ceasing joy,And hopes as dear as could the heart employIn aught to earth pertaining? Death has provedHis might, nor less his mercy, as behoved,Death conscious that he only could destroyThe bodily frame. That beauty is laid lowTo moulder … [Read more...] about Sonnet, By: William Wordsworth

Though the torrents from their fountainsRoar down many a craggy steep,Yet they find among the mountainsResting-places calm and deep. Clouds that love through air to hasten,Ere the storm its fury stills,Helmet-like themselves will fastenOn the heads of towering hills. What, if through the frozen centreOf the Alps the Chamois bound,Yet he has a home to enterIn some nook of … [Read more...] about Song Of The Wandering Jew, By: William Wordsworth