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When human touch (as monkish books attest)Nor was applied nor could be, Ledbury bellsBroke forth in concert flung adown the dells,And upward, high as Malvern's cloudy crest;Sweet tones, and caught by a noble Lady blestTo rapture! Mabel listened at the sideOf her loved mistress: soon the music died,And Catherine said, "Here I set up my rest."Warned in a dream, the Wanderer long … [Read more...] about Sonnets – III. – St. Catherine Of Ledbury, By: William Wordsworth

While poring Antiquarians search the groundUpturned with curious pains, the Bard, a Seer,Takes fire: The men that have been reappear;Romans for travel girt, for business gowned;And some recline on couches, myrtle-crowned,In festal glee: why not? For fresh and clear,As if its hues were of the passing year,Dawns this time-buried pavement. From that moundHoards may come forth of … [Read more...] about Sonnets – II. – Roman Antiquities Discovered At Bishopstone, Herefordshire, By: William Wordsworth

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