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Grieve for the Man who hither came bereft,And seeking consolation from above;Nor grieve the less that skill to him was leftTo paint this picture of his lady-love:Can she, a blessed saint, the work approve?And oh, good Brethren of the cowl, a thingSo fair, to which with peril he must cling,Destroy in pity, or with care remove.That bloom, those eyes, can they assist to … [Read more...] about Memorials Of A Tour In Italy, 1837 – XV. – At The Convent Of Camaldoli, By: William Wordsworth

Under the shadow of a stately Pile,The dome of Florence, pensive and alone,Nor giving heed to aught that passed the while,I stood, and gazed upon a marble stone,The laureled Dante's favourite seat. A throne,In just esteem, it rivals; though no styleBe there of decoration to beguileThe mind, depressed by thought of greatness flown.As a true man, who long had served the lyre,I … [Read more...] about Memorials Of A Tour In Italy, 1837 – XIX. – At Florence, By: William Wordsworth

List 'twas the Cuckoo. O with what delightHeard I that voice! and catch it now, though faint,Far off and faint, and melting into air,Yet not to be mistaken. Hark again!Those louder cries give notice that the Bird,Although invisible as Echo's self,Is wheeling hitherward. Thanks, happy Creature,For this unthought-of greeting!            While alluredFrom vale to hill, from hill … [Read more...] about Memorials Of A Tour In Italy, 1837 – XIV. – The Cuckoo At Laverna – May 25, 1837, By: William Wordsworth

For action born, existing to be tried,Powers manifold we have that interveneTo stir the heart that would too closely screenHer peace from images to pain allied.What wonder if at midnight, by the sideOf Sanguinetto, or broad Thrasymene,The clang of arms is heard, and phantoms glide,Unhappy ghosts in troops by moonlight seen;And singly thine, O vanquished Chief! whose … [Read more...] about Memorials Of A Tour In Italy, 1837 – XIII. – Near The Same Lake, By: William Wordsworth

When here with Carthage Rome to conflict came,An earthquake, mingling with the battle's shock,Checked not its rage; unfelt the ground did rock,Sword dropped not, javelin kept its deadly aim.Now all is sun-bright peace. Of that day's shame,Or glory, not a vestige seems to endure,Save in this Rill that took from blood the nameWhich yet it bears, sweet Stream! as crystal pure.So … [Read more...] about Memorials Of A Tour In Italy, 1837 – XII. – Near The Lake Of Thrasymene, By: William Wordsworth