written by William WordsworthUp with me! up with me into the clouds!
For thy song, Lark, is strong;
Up with me, up with me 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 would I 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 would'st be loth
To be such a traveller as I.
Happy, happy Liver,
With a soul as strong as a mountain river
Pouring out praise to the Almighty Giver,
Joy and jollity be with us both!
Alas! my journey, rugged and uneven,
Through prickly moors or 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.
William Wordsworth
written by William Wordsworth, published on Wed 10.14.2009 at 10:30
Seven Daughter had Lord Archibald,
All children of one mother:
You could not say in one short day
written by William Wordsworth, published on Fri 10.09.2009 at 01:48
O FRIEND! I know not which way I must look
For comfort, being, as I am, opprest,
To think that now our life is only drest
written by William Wordsworth, published on Sat 10.03.2009 at 12:20
ONCE did she hold the gorgeous East in fee;
And was the safeguard of the West: the worth
written by William Wordsworth, published on Sat 09.05.2009 at 17:43
SHE dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dove,
A Maid whom there were none to praise
And very few to love:
written by William Wordsworth, published on Sat 08.29.2009 at 10:22
Strange fits of passion have I known:
And I will dare to tell,
But in the lover's ear alone,
What once to me befell.
written by William Wordsworth, published on Wed 08.19.2009 at 04:19
There is an Eminence,--of these our hills
The last that parleys with the setting sun;
We can behold it from our orchard-seat;
