William Wordsworth, Byron, Keats and others

Some works and passages of William Wordsworth:


Some poems that are interesting to read:

To a butterfly


Strange Fits of Passion I Have Known


There are many others, too many to mention,

But I insist that you would pay attention

To the things that have been written

In the works of Wordsworth

He wrote of love, for women and Earth

And I hope that you may cherish

What he said so long ago.



“And you must love him, ere to him

He will be worthy of your love.”


“Unless I now confound my present feelings with the past.”


“But he is weak both man and boy

Hath been an idler in the land

Contented if he might enjoy

The things which others understand.”


“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.”


“And ’tis my faith that every flower enjoys the air it breathes.”


“Come forth and bring with you

A heart that watches and receives.”


“My days my Friend, are almost gone,

My life has been approved

And many love me, but by none

Am I enough beloved.”


“Look for the stars, you’ll say that there are none;

Look up a second time, and, one by one,

You mark them twinkling out with the silvery light.

And wonder how they could elude the sight.”


“She died and left to me

This heath, this calm and quiet scene,

The memory of what has been

And never more will be.”


“My heart leaps up when I behold.”


“I stood embracing and embraced.”


“I answered him with pleasure and surprise,

And there was, while I spoke,

A fire about my eyes.”


“The thoughts of our past years in doth breed.”


            A Complaint


There is a change-And I am poor;

Your love hath been, nor long ago,

A fountain at my fond heart’s door,

Whose only business was to flow;

And flow it did; nor taking heed

Of its own bounty, or my need.


What happy moments did I count!

Blest was I then all bliss above!

Now, for that consecrated fount

Of murmuring, sparkling, living love,

What have I? shall I dare to tell?

A comfortless and hidden well.


A well of love-it may be deep-

I trust it is-and never dry:

What matter? if the waters sleep

In silence and obscurity.

-Such change, and at the very door

Of my fond heart, hath made me poor.                                                                                 -1806


                        A Character


I marvel how nature could ever find space

For so many strange contrasts in one human face:

There’s the thought and no thought, and there’s

paleness and bloom

And bustle and sluggishness, pleasure and gloom.


There’s weakness, and strength both redundant and vain;

Such strength as, if ever affliction and pain

Could pierce a temper that’s soft as disease,

Would be rational peace-a philosopher’s ease.


There’s indifference, alike when he fails or succeeds,

And attention full ten times as much as there needs;

Pride where there’s no envy, there’s so much of joy;

And mildness, and spirit both forward and coy.


There’s freedom, and sometimes a different stare

Of shame scarcely seeming to know that she’s there,

There’s virtue, the title it surely may claim,

Yet wants heaven knows what to be worthy the name.


This picture from nature may seem to depart,

Yet the Man would at once run away with your heart;

And for five centuries right gladly would be

Such an odd such a kind happy creature as he.                                                                    -1800




I wandered as lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o’er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host, of golden daffodils;

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.


Continuous as the stars that shine

And twinkle on the milky way,

They stretched in the never-ending line

Along the margin of a bay:

Ten thousand I saw at first glance,

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.


The waves beside them danced; but they

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:

A poet could not be but gay,

In such a jocund company:

I gazed-and gazed-but little thought

What wealth the show to me had brought!


For oft, when on my couch I lie

in a vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon the inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the daffodils.          -1806




“Thanks to the human heart by which we live,

Thanks to the tenderness, its joys and fears,

To me the meanest flower that blows can give,

Thoughts that do often lie to deep for tears.”




Possibly some wise words from Byron:


She Walks in Beauty

Stanzas for Music        -1815


When We Two Parted

So We’ll Go No More A Roving




“My life, I love you”




“Remember him whom passion’s power

Severely, deeply, vainly proved:

Think that, whate’er to others, thou

Hast seen each selfish thought subdued:

I blest thy purer soul ever now,

Even now in midnight solitude.


Still had I loved thee less, my heart

Had then less sacrificed to thine;

It felt not half so much to part,

As if guilt had made thee mine.”


“I had not left my clime, nor should I be,

In spite of tortures, ne’er to be forgot,


“A slave again of love,- at least of thee.”




“‘Tis vain to struggle – let me perish young

Live as I lived, and love as I have loved

To dust I return, from dust I sprung,

And then, at least, my heart can ne’er be moved.”




Address to a Child


What way does the Wind Come?  What way does he go?

He rides over the water, over the snow,

Through wood, and through vale; and. o’er rocky height

Which the goat cannot climb, takes his sounding flight;

He tosses about in every bare tree,

As, if you look up, you plainly might see;

But he will come, and whither he goes,

There’s never a scholar in England knows.


He will suddenly stop in a canning nook,

And ring a sharp ‘larum; -but, if you should look,

There’s nothing to see but a cushion of snow

Round as a pillow, and whiter than milk,

And softer than if it were covered with silk.

Sometimes he’ll hide in the cave of a rock,

Then whistle as shrill as the buzzard cock;

-Yet seek him, -and what shall you find in the place?

Nothing but silence and empty space;

Save in a corner, a heap of dry leaves,

That he’s left, for a bed, to beggars and thieves!


As soon as ’tis daylight to-morrow, with me

You shall go to the orchard and you will see

That he has been there, and made a great rout,

And cracked the branches, strewn them about;

Heaven grant that he will spare but that one upright twig

That looked up at the sky so proud and big

All last summer, as well as you know,

Studded with apples, a beautiful show!


Hark! over the roof he makes a pause,

And growls as if he would fix his claws

Right in the slates, and with a huge rattle

Drive them down like men in a battle:

-But let him range round; he does us no harm,

We build up the fire, we’re snug and warm;

Untouched by his breath the candle shines bright,

And burns with a clear and steady light;

Books have we to read, -but that half-stifled knell,

Alas! ’tis the sound of the eight o’clock bell.

-Come now we’ll to bed! and when we are there

He may work his own will, and what shall we care?

He may knock at the door, -we’ll not let him in;

May drive at the windows, -we’ll laugh at his din;

Let him seek his own home wherever it may be;

Here’s a cozie warm house for my friend and me.                                                  -W.W., 1806







My head is heavy, my limbs are weary,

And it is not life that makes me move.                                                                             -1820



“The wilderness has a mysterious tongue

Which teaches awful doubt,- or faith so mild,

So solemn, so serene, that man may be,

But for such faith, with Nature reconciled.”




“Smiling they live, and call life pleasure;-

To me that cup has dealt in another measure.”



              On a Faded Violet


The odour from the flower is gone

Which like thy kisses thy breathed on me;

The colour from the flower is flown

Which glowed of thee and only thee!


A shrivelled, lifeless, vacant form,

It lies on my abandoned breast;

And mocks the heart, which yet is warm

With cold and silent rest.


I weep-my tears revive it not;

I sigh-it breathes no more on me:

Its mute and uncomplaining lot

Is such as mine should be.                                                                                    -1818




Lines to a Critic


Honey from silkworms who can gather,

Or silk from a yellow bee?

The grass may grow in winter weather

As soon as hate in me.


Hate men who cant, and men who pray,

And men who rail, like thee;

An equal passion to repay

They are not coy like me.


Or seek some slave of power and gold

To be thy dear heart’s mate;

Thy love will move that bigot cold

Sooner than me thy hate.


A passion like the one I prove

Cannot divided be;

I hate thy want of truth and love-

How should I then hate thee?




“Ay, marry thy ghastly wife!

Let Fear and Disquiet and Strife

Spread thy couch in the chamber of Life!

Marry Ruin, thou Tyrant! and Hell be thy guide

To the bed of the bride.”




“Fame is love disguised: if few

Find either, never think it strange

that poets range.”



 Lines to a Reviewer


Alas! good friend, what profit can you see

In hating a hateless thing as me?

There is no sport in hate, where all the rage

Is on one side.  I vain would you assuage

Your frowns upon unresisting smile,

In which not even contempt lurks, to beguile

Your heart by some faint sympathy of hate.

Oh! conquer what you cannot satiate:

For to your passion I am far more coy

Than ever yet was coldest maid or boy

In winter noon. Of your antipathy

If I am Narcissus, you are free

To pine into a sound with hating me.                                                                                -1820




To –:”One Word Is Too Often Profaned”


One word is too often profaned

for me to profane it;

One feeling to falsely disdained

for thee to disdain it;

One hope is too like despair

For prudence to smother;

And pity from thee more dear

Than that from another.


I can give not what men call love:

But wilt thou accept not

The worship the hearts lift above,

And the Heavens reject not:

The desire of the moth for the star,

Of the night for the morrow,

The devotion to something afar

From the sphere of our sorrow!                                                                            -1821




Some Works by Keats:


“Unto our souls, and bound to us fast.

That whether there, be shine, or gloom o’ercast

They alway be with us, or we die.”


Written in Disgust of Vulgar Superstition


Sonnet: “When I Have Fears…”


“A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:

Its loveliness increases; it will never

Pass into nothingness; but still will keep

A bower quiet for us, and a sleep

Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.”




The Love of a Mother


We may roam throughout life, and kind friends

may abound;

We may share of their love as they circle us round,

But in no other friend can such fondness be found

As there lives in the breast of a mother.


There infixed in her heart, it is truthful and pure,

‘T is a love that no charm has the power to allure;

Friends and fortune may fail, but that love will


Ah: the lover shall change, and the trusted shall


And the one we most cherish shall hand us the gall;

But there yet shall remain, sweetly beming o’er all,

The kind, cheering, fond love of a mother.


If there is aught of Heaven retained on this earth;

If one thing may soar high o’er all the other worth;

If aught ever was breathed on by God at its birth,

‘T is the deep, holy love of a mother.


Though the tempest may rage and the clouds

gather low;

Though the thunder may roll as we pall ‘neath our woe;

There is always a haven to which we can go,

And rest safe in the heart of a mother.


When we’re sickly and ailing, or weary and lone,

And the friends whom we loved have all left us andgone,

O how calm we repose if our wants are looked on

By the soft, gentle care of a mother!

-Chaplein, R.A.