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'Night Speaks' Grateful is Sleep, my life in stone bound fast;More grateful still: while wrong and shame shall last,On me can Time no happier state bestowThan to be left unconscious of the woe.Ah then, lest you awaken me, speak low.Grateful is Sleep, more grateful still to beOf marble; for while shameless wrong and woePrevail, 'tis best to neither hear nor see.Then wake me … [Read more...] about Michael Angelo In Reply To The Passage Upon His Staute Of Sleeping Night, By: William Wordsworth

If from the public way you turn your stepsUp the tumultuous brook of Green-head Ghyll,You will suppose that with an upright pathYour feet must struggle; in such bold ascentThe pastoral mountains front you, face to face.But, courage! for around that boisterous brookThe mountains have all opened out themselves,And made a hidden valley of their own.No habitation can be seen; but … [Read more...] about Michael – A Pastoral Poem, By: William Wordsworth

Methought I saw the footsteps of a throneWhich mists and vapours from mine eyes did shroudNor view of who might sit thereon allowed;But all the steps and ground about were strownWith sights the ruefullest that flesh and boneEver put on; a miserable crowd,Sick, hale, old, young, who cried before that cloud,"Thou art our king, O Death! to thee we groan."Those steps I clomb; the … [Read more...] about Methought I Saw The Footsteps Of A Throne, By: William Wordsworth

A pen, to register; a keyThat winds through secret wardsAre well assigned to MemoryBy allegoric Bards. As aptly, also, might be givenA Pencil to her hand;That, softening objects, sometimes evenOutstrips the heart's demand; That smooths foregone distress, the linesOf lingering care subdues,Long-vanished happiness refines,And clothes in brighter hues; Yet, like a tool of … [Read more...] about Memory, By: William Wordsworth

Is then the final page before me spread,Nor further outlet left to mind or heart?Presumptuous Book! too forward to be read,How can I give thee licence to depart?One tribute more: unbidden feelings startForth from their coverts; slighted objects rise;My spirit is the scene of such wild artAs on Parnassus rules, when lightning flies,Visibly leading on the thunder's … [Read more...] about Memorials Of A Tour On The Continent, 1820 – XXXVII. – Desultory Stanzas – Upon Receiving The Preceding Sheets From The Press, By: William Wordsworth