Selection from the Sonnets of William Wordsworth-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 furnace fells will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells in truth the prison unto which we doom ourselves no prison is and hence for me in sundry moods twas pastime to be bound within the sonnet's scanty plot of ground Pleased if some souls, for such their needs must be, Who have felt the weight of too much liberty, Should find brief solace there, as I have found.

Score not the sonnet.

Critic, you have frowned.

By William Wordsworth.

scorn not the sonnet critic you have frowned mindless of its just honors with this key shakespeare unlocked his heart the melody of this small lute gave ease to petrarch's wound a thousand times this pipe did tasso sound with it camoens soothed an exile's grief the sonnet glittered a gay myrtle leaf amid the cypress with which dante crowned his visionary brow a glow-worm lamp it cheered mild spenser called from fairyland to struggle through dark ways and when a damp fell round the path of milton in his hand the thing became a trumpet whence he blew soul animating strains Alas, too few! calm is all nature as a resting wheel the kine are couched upon the dewy grass the horse alone seen dimly as i pass is cropping audibly his later meal dark is the ground a slumber seems to steal o'er vale and mountain and the starless sky now in this blank of things a harmony home felt and home created comes to heal the grief for which the senses still supply fresh food for only then when memory is hushed am i at rest my friends restrain those busy cares that would allay my pain oh leave me to myself nor let me feel the officious touch that makes me droop again I watch, and long have watched, with calm regret.

i watch and long have watched with calm regret yon slowly sinking star immortal sire so mighty seem of all the glittering choir blue ether still surrounds him yet and yet but now the horizon's rocky parapet is reached where forfeiting his bright attire he burns transmuted to a dusky fire then pays submissively the appointed debt to the flying moments and is seen no more angels and gods we struggle with our fate while health power glory from their height decline depressed and then extinguished and our state in this how different lost star from thine that no to-morrow shall our beams restore How clear! How keen! How marvelously bright! By William Wordsworth.

how clear how keen how marvelously bright the effluence from yon distant mountain's head which strewn with snow smooth as the sky can shed shines like another sun on mortal sight uprisen as if to check approaching night and all her twinkling stars who now would tread if so he might yon mountain's glittering head terrestrial but a surface by the flight of sad mortality's earth sullying wing unswept unstained nor shall the aerial powers dissolve that beauty destined to endure white radiant spotless exquisitely pure through all vicissitudes till genial spring has filled the laughing vales with welcome flowers End of poem.

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While not a leaf seems faded while the fields with ripening harvest prodigally fair in brightest sunshine bask this nipping air sent from some distant clime where winter wields his icy scimitar aforetaste yields of bitter change and bids the flowers beware and whispers to the silent birds prepare against the threatening foe your trustiest shields for me who under kindlier laws belong to nature's tuneful choir this rustling dry through leaves yet green and yon crystalline sky announce a season potent to renew mid frost and snow the instinctive joys of song and nobler cares than listless summer new End of poem.

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there is a pleasure in poetic pains which only poets know twas rightly said whom could the muses else allure to tread their smoothest paths to wear their lightest chains when happiest fancy has inspired the strains how oft the malice of one luckless word pursues the enthusiast to the social board haunts him belated on the silent plains yet he repines not if his thoughts stand clear at last of hindrance and obscurity fresh as the star that crowns the brow of morn bright speckless as a softly moulded tear the moment it has left the virgin's eye or raindrop lingering on the pointed thorn End of poem.

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ye sacred nurseries of blooming youth in whose collegiate shelter england's flowers expand enjoying through their vernal hours the air of liberty the light of truth much have ye suffered from time's gnawing tooth yet o ye spires of oxford domes and towers gardens and groves your presence overpowers the soberness of reason till in sooth transformed and rushing on a bold exchange i slight my own beloved cam to range where silver isis leads my stripling feet pace the long avenue or glide adown the stream-like windings of that glorious street an eager novice robed in fluttering gown a parsonage in oxfordshire by william wordsworth Read for LibriVox.org. where holy ground begins unhallowed ends is marked by no distinguishable line the turf unites the pathways intertwine and wheresoe'er the stealing footstep tends garden and that domain where kindred friends and neighbours rest together here confound their several features mingled like the sound of many waters or as evening blends with shady night soft airs from shrub and flower waft fragrant greetings to each silent grave and while those lofty poplars gently wave their tops between them comes and goes a sky bright as the glimpses of eternity to saints accorded in their mortal hour End of poem.

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