1770–1850, English poet, b. Cockermouth, Cumberland. One of the great English poets, he was a leader of the romantic movement in England.
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Wordsworth, William
TO MY SISTER
It is the first mild day of March :
Each minute sweeter than before;
The redbreast sings from the tall larch
That stands beside our door.
There is a blessing in the air,
Which seems a sens of joy to yield
To the bare trees and mountains bare,
And grass in the green field.
My sister ! ('tis a wish of mine)
Now that your morning meal is done,
Make haste, your morning task resign;
Come forth and feel the sun.
Edward will come with you ; -and pray,
Put on with speed your woodland dress;
And bring no book : for this one day
We'll give to idleness.
No joyless forms shall regulate
Our living calendar:
We from to-day, my Friend will date
The opening of the year.
Love, now a universal birth,
From heart to heart is stealing,
From earth to man, from man to earth:
-It is the hour of feeling.
One moment now may give us more
Than years of toiling reason:
Our minds shall drink at every pore
The spirit of the season.
Some silent laws our hearts will make,
Which they shall long obey:
We for the year to come may take
Our temper from to-day.
And from the blessed power that rolls
About, below, above,
We'll frame the measure of our souls:
They shall be tuned to love.
Then come, my Sister ! come, I pray,
With speed put on your woodland dress;
And bring no book: for this one day
We'll give to idleness.
Poem written in 1798
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She dwelt among hte untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dove,
A Maid whom there were none to praise
And very few to love:
A violet by a mossy stone
Half hidden from the eye !
- Fair as a star when only one
Is shining in the sky.
She lived unknown, and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be;
But she is in her grave, and, oh
The difference to me !
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To a butterfly
I've watched you now a full half-hour,
Self-poised upon that yellow flower;
And, little Butterfly ! indeed
I know not if you sleep or feed.
How motionless ! - not frozen seas
More motionless ! and then
What joy awaits you, when the breeze
Hath found you out among the trees,
And calls you forth again !
This plot of orchard-ground is ours;
My trees they are, my sister's flowers;
Here rest your wings when they are weary;
Here lodge as in a sanctuary !
Come often to us, fear no wrong;
Sit near us on the bough !
We'll talk of sunshine and of song,
And summer days when we were young;
Sweet childish days, that were as long
As twenty days are now.
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To a sky-lark
Up with me ! Up with me into the clouds !
For thy song, Lark is strong ;
Up with me, up into the clouds !
Singing, singing,
With clouds and sky about thee ringing,
Lift me, guide me till I find
That spot which seems so to thy mind !
I have walked through wildernesses dreary,
And to-day my heart is weary ;
Had I now the wings of a Faery,
Up to thee I would fly.
There is madness about thee, and joy divine
In that song of thine ;
Lift me, guide me, high and high
To thy banqueting-place in the sky !
Joyous as morning,
Thou art laughing and scorning;
Thou hast a nest for thy love and thy rest,
And, though little troubled with sloth,
Drunken Lark ! thou wouldst be loth
To be such a traveller as I.
Happy, Happy Liver !
With a soul as strong as a moutain river,
Pouring out to praise to the almighty Giver,
Joy and jollity be with us both !
Alas ! my journey, rugged and uneven,
Through prickly moors of dusty ways must wind;
But hearing thee, or others of thy kind,
As full of gladness and as free of heaven,
I, with my fate contented, will plod on,
And hope for higher raptures, when life's day is done.
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