It seems a day(I speak of one from many singled out)One of those heavenly days that cannot die;When, in the eagerness of boyish hope,I left our cottage-threshold, sallying forthWith a huge wallet o'er my shoulders slung,A nutting-crook in hand; and turned my stepsTow'rd some far-distant wood, a Figure quaint,Tricked out in proud disguise of cast-off weedsWhich for that service … [Read more...] about Nutting, By: William Wordsworth
O Nightingale! Thou Surely Art, By: WIlliam Wordsworth
O Nightingale! thou surely artA creature of a "fiery heart":These notes of thine, they pierce and pierce;Tumultuous harmony and fierce!Thou sing'st as if the God of wineHad helped thee to a Valentine;A song in mockery and despiteOf shades, and dews, and silent night;And steady bliss, and all the lovesNow sleeping in these peaceful groves.I heard a Stock-dove sing or sayHis … [Read more...] about O Nightingale! Thou Surely Art, By: WIlliam Wordsworth
Nuns Fret Not At Their Convent’s Narrow Room, By: William Wordsworth
Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room;And hermits are contented with their cells;And students with their pensive citadels;Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom,Sit blithe and happy; bees that soar for bloom,High as the highest Peak of Furness-fells,Will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells:In truth the prison, unto which we doomOurselves, no prison is: and hence for … [Read more...] about Nuns Fret Not At Their Convent’s Narrow Room, By: William Wordsworth
Nunnery, By: William Wordsworth
The floods are roused, and will not soon be weary;Down from the Pennine Alps how fiercely sweepsCroglin, the stately Eden's tributary!He raves, or through some moody passage creepsPlotting new mischief, out again he leapsInto broad light, and sends, through regions airy,That voice which soothed the Nuns while on the steepsThey knelt in prayer, or sang to blissful Mary.That … [Read more...] about Nunnery, By: William Wordsworth
Nun’s Well, Brigham, By: William Wordsworth
The cattle crowding round this beverage clearTo slake their thirst, with reckless hoofs have trodThe encircling turf into a barren clod;Through which the waters creep, then disappear,Born to be lost in Derwent flowing near;Yet, o'er the brink, and round the limestone cellOf the pure spring (they call it the "Nun's Well,"Name that first struck by chance my startled ear)A tender … [Read more...] about Nun’s Well, Brigham, By: William Wordsworth