Poems Of William Wordsworth

[*Sarlaa*]

A Character​

​

I marvel how Nature could ever find space ​

For so many strange contrasts in one human face: ​

There's 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 through a temper that's soft to 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 diffident 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 I for five centuries right gladly would be ​

Such an odd such a kind happy creature as he.​

​

​

@Asheer @kool~nomi @white_rose991 @Don @Star24 @sherry2112 @ChoCo @Nelly @faari @Pari ​

 

[*Sarlaa*]

A Fact, And An Imagination, Or, Canute And Alfred, On The Seashore​

​

THE Danish Conqueror, on his royal chair,​

Mustering a face of haughty sovereignty,​

To aid a covert purpose, cried--'O ye​

Approaching Waters of the deep, that share​

With this green isle my fortunes, come not where​

Your Master's throne is set.'--Deaf was the Sea;​

Her waves rolled on, respecting his decree​

Less than they heed a breath of wanton air.​

--Then Canute, rising from the invaded throne,​

Said to his servile Courtiers,--'Poor the reach, ​

The undisguised extent, of mortal sway!​

He only is a King, and he alone​

Deserves the name (this truth the billows preach)​

Whose everlasting laws, sea, earth, and heaven, obey.'​

This just reproof the prosperous Dane​

Drew, from the influx of the main,​

For some whose rugged northern mouths would strain​

At oriental flattery;​

And Canute (fact more worthy to be known)​

From that time forth did for his brows disown ​

The ostentatious symbol of a crown;​

Esteeming earthly royalty​

Contemptible as vain.​

Now hear what one of elder days,​

Rich theme of England's fondest praise,​

Her darling Alfred, 'might' have spoken;​

To cheer the remnant of his host​

When he was driven from coast to coast,​

Distressed and harassed, but with mind unbroken:​

'My faithful followers, lo! the tide is spent ​

That rose, and steadily advanced to fill​

The shores and channels, working Nature's will​

Among the mazy streams that backward went,​

And in the sluggish pools where ships are pent:​

And now, his task performed, the flood stands still,​

At the green base of many an inland hill,​

In placid beauty and sublime content!​

Such the repose that sage and hero find;​

Such measured rest the sedulous and good​

Of humbler name; whose souls do, like the flood ​

Of Ocean, press right on; or gently wind,​

Neither to be diverted nor withstood,​

Until they reach the bounds by Heaven assigned.' ​

@Asheer @kool~nomi @white_rose991 @Don @Star24 @sherry2112 @ChoCo @Nelly @faari @Pari ​

 

[*Sarlaa*]

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; not 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.​

​

​

​

​

​

@Asheer @kool~nomi @white_rose991 @Don @Star24 @sherry2112 @ChoCo @Nelly @faari @Pari

 

[*Sarlaa*]

​

A Poet's Epitaph​

​

Art thou a Statist in the van ​

Of public conflicts trained and bred? ​

--First learn to love one living man; ​

'Then' may'st thou think upon the dead. ​

​

A Lawyer art thou?--draw not nigh! ​

Go, carry to some fitter place ​

The keenness of that practised eye, ​

The hardness of that sallow face. ​

​

Art thou a Man of purple cheer? ​

A rosy Man, right plump to see? ​

Approach; yet, Doctor, not too near, ​

This grave no cushion is for thee. ​

​

Or art thou one of gallant pride, ​

A Soldier and no man of chaff? ​

Welcome!--but lay thy sword aside, ​

And lean upon a peasant's staff. ​

​

Physician art thou? one, all eyes, ​

Philosopher! a fingering slave, ​

One that would peep and botanise ​

Upon his mother's grave? ​

​

Wrapt closely in thy sensual fleece, ​

O turn aside,--and take, I pray, ​

That he below may rest in peace, ​

Thy ever-dwindling soul, away! ​

​

A Moralist perchance appears; ​

Led, Heaven knows how! to this poor sod: ​

And he has neither eyes nor ears; ​

Himself his world, and his own God; ​

​

One to whose smooth-rubbed soul can cling ​

Nor form, nor feeling, great or small; ​

A reasoning, self-sufficing thing, ​

An intellectual All-in-all! ​

​

Shut close the door; press down the latch; ​

Sleep in thy intellectual crust; ​

Nor lose ten tickings of thy watch ​

Near this unprofitable dust. ​

​

But who is He, with modest looks, ​

And clad in homely russet brown? ​

He murmurs near the running brooks ​

A music sweeter than their own. ​

​

He is retired as noontide dew, ​

Or fountain in a noon-day grove; ​

And you must love him, ere to you ​

He will seem worthy of your love. ​

​

The outward shows of sky and earth, ​

Of hill and valley, he has viewed; ​

And impulses of deeper birth ​

Have come to him in solitude. ​

​

In common things that round us lie ​

Some random truths he can impart,-- ​

The harvest of a quiet eye ​

That broods and sleeps on his own heart. ​

​

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. ​

​

--Come hither in thy hour of strength; ​

Come, weak as is a breaking wave! ​

Here stretch thy body at full length; ​

Or build thy house upon this grave. ​

@Asheer @kool~nomi @white_rose991 @Don @Star24 @sherry2112 @ChoCo @Nelly @faari @Pari

 

[Wafa_Khan]

hhhmmm nyc

 

[*Sarlaa*]

​

A Farewell

FAREWELL, thou little Nook of mountain-ground,
Thou rocky corner in the lowest stair
Of that magnificent temple which doth bound
One side of our whole vale with grandeur rare;
Sweet garden-orchard, eminently fair,
The loveliest spot that man hath ever found,
Farewell!--we leave thee to Heaven's peaceful care,
Thee, and the Cottage which thou dost surround.

Our boat is safely anchored by the shore,
And there will safely ride when we are gone;
The flowering shrubs that deck our humble door
Will prosper, though untended and alone:
Fields, goods, and far-off chattels we have none:
These narrow bounds contain our private store
Of things earth makes, and sun doth shine upon;
Here are they in our sight--we have no more.

Sunshine and shower be with you, bud and bell!
For two months now in vain we shall be sought:
We leave you here in solitude to dwell
With these our latest gifts of tender thought;
Thou, like the morning, in thy saffron coat,
Bright gowan, and marsh-marigold, farewell!
Whom from the borders of the Lake we brought,
And placed together near our rocky Well.

We go for One to whom ye will be dear;
And she will prize this Bower, this Indian shed,
Our own contrivance, Building without peer!
--A gentle Maid, whose heart is lowly bred,
Whose pleasures are in wild fields gathered,
With joyousness, and with a thoughtful cheer,
Will come to you; to you herself will wed;
And love the blessed life that we lead here.

Dear Spot! which we have watched with tender heed,
Bringing thee chosen plants and blossoms blown
Among the distant mountains, flower and weed,
Which thou hast taken to thee as thy own,
Making all kindness registered and known;
Thou for our sakes, though Nature's child indeed,
Fair in thyself and beautiful alone,
Hast taken gifts which thou dost little need.

And O most constant, yet most fickle Place,
Thou hast thy wayward moods, as thou dost show
To them who look not daily on thy face;
Who, being loved, in love no bounds dost know,
And say'st, when we forsake thee, 'Let them go!'
Thou easy-hearted Thing, with thy wild race
Of weeds and flowers, till we return be slow,
And travel with the year at a soft pace.

Help us to tell Her tales of years gone by,
And this sweet spring, the best beloved and best;
Joy will be flown in its mortality;
Something must stay to tell us of the rest.
Here, thronged with primroses, the steep rock's breast
Glittered at evening like a starry sky;
And in this bush our sparrow built her nest,
Of which I sang one song that will not die.

O happy Garden! whose seclusion deep
Hath been so friendly to industrious hours;
And to soft slumbers, that did gently steep
Our spirits, carrying with them dreams of flowers,
And wild notes warbled among leafy bowers;
Two burning months let summer overleap,
And, coming back with Her who will be ours,
Into thy bosom we again shall creep.

​

@Asheer @kool~nomi @white_rose991 @Don @Star24 @sherry2112 @ChoCo @Nelly @faari @Pari

 

[*Sarlaa*]

A Night-Piece​

​

------The sky is overcast ​

With a continuous cloud of texture close, ​

Heavy and wan, all whitened by the Moon, ​

Which through that veil is indistinctly seen, ​

A dull, contracted circle, yielding light ​

So feebly spread, that not a shadow falls, ​

Chequering the ground--from rock, plant, tree, or tower. ​

At length a pleasant instantaneous gleam ​

Startles the pensive traveller while he treads ​

His lonesome path, with unobserving eye ​

Bent earthwards; he looks up--the clouds are split ​

Asunder,--and above his head he sees ​

The clear Moon, and the glory of the heavens. ​

There, in a black-blue vault she sails along, ​

Followed by multitudes of stars, that, small ​

And sharp, and bright, along the dark abyss ​

Drive as she drives: how fast they wheel away, ​

Yet vanish not!--the wind is in the tree, ​

But they are silent;--still they roll along ​

Immeasurably distant; and the vault, ​

Built round by those white clouds, enormous clouds, ​

Still deepens its unfathomable depth. ​

At length the Vision closes; and the mind, ​

Not undisturbed by the delight it feels, ​

Which slowly settles into peaceful calm, ​

Is left to muse upon the solemn scene. ​

​

@Asheer @kool~nomi @white_rose991 @Don @Star24 @sherry2112 @ChoCo @Nelly @faari @Pari

 

[kingnomi]

aik topic mene padha nhn tum dusre me shiru ho gayi

 

[*Sarlaa*]

A Night Thought​

​

Lo! where the Moon along the sky​

Sails with her happy destiny;​

Oft is she hid from mortal eye​

Or dimly seen,​

But when the clouds asunder fly​

How bright her mien!​

​

Far different we--a froward race,​

Thousands though rich in Fortune's grace​

With cherished sullenness of pace​

Their way pursue, ​

Ingrates who wear a smileless face​

The whole year through.​

​

If kindred humours e'er would make​

My spirit droop for drooping's sake,​

From Fancy following in thy wake,​

Bright ship of heaven!​

A counter impulse let me take​

And be forgiven. ​

@Asheer @kool~nomi @white_rose991 @Don @Star24 @sherry2112 @ChoCo @Nelly @faari @Pari

 

[*Sarlaa*]

​

A Morning Exercise​

​

FANCY, who leads the pastimes of the glad,​

Full oft is pleased a wayward dart to throw;​

Sending sad shadows after things not sad,​

Peopling the harmless fields with signs of woe:​

Beneath her sway, a simple forest cry​

Becomes an echo of man's misery.​

Blithe ravens croak of death; and when the owl​

Tries his two voices for a favourite strain--​

'Tu-whit--Tu-whoo!' the unsuspecting fowl​

Forebodes mishap or seems but to complain; ​

Fancy, intent to harass and annoy,​

Can thus pervert the evidence of joy.​

​

Through border wilds where naked Indians stray,​

Myriads of notes attest her subtle skill;​

A feathered task-master cries, 'WORK AWAY!'​

And, in thy iteration, 'WHIP POOR WILL!'​

Is heard the spirit of a toil-worn slave,​

Lashed out of life, not quiet in the grave.​

​

What wonder? at her bidding, ancient lays​

Steeped in dire grief the voice of Philomel; ​

And that fleet messenger of summer days,​

The Swallow, twittered subject to like spell;​

But ne'er could Fancy bend the buoyant Lark​

To melancholy service--hark! O hark!​

​

The daisy sleeps upon the dewy lawn,​

Not lifting yet the head that evening bowed;​

But 'He' is risen, a later star of dawn,​

Glittering and twinkling near yon rosy cloud;​

Bright gem instinct with music, vocal spark;​

The happiest bird that sprang out of the Ark! ​

​

Hail, blest above all kinds!--Supremely skilled​

Restless with fixed to balance, high with low,​

Thou leav'st the halcyon free her hopes to build​

On such forbearance as the deep may show;​

Perpetual flight, unchecked by earthly ties,​

Leav'st to the wandering bird of paradise.​

​

Faithful, though swift as lightning, the meek dove;​

Yet more hath Nature reconciled in thee;​

So constant with thy downward eye of love,​

Yet, in aerial singleness, so free; ​

So humble, yet so ready to rejoice​

In power of wing and never-wearied voice.​

​

To the last point of vision, and beyond,​

Mount, daring warbler!--that love-prompted strain,​

('Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond)​

Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain:​

Yet might'st thou seem, proud privilege! to sing​

All independent of the leafy spring.​

​

How would it please old Ocean to partake,​

With sailors longing for a breeze in vain, ​

The harmony thy notes most gladly make​

Where earth resembles most his own domain!​

Urania's self might welcome with pleased ear​

These matins mounting towards her native sphere.​

​

Chanter by heaven attracted, whom no bars​

To day-light known deter from that pursuit,​

'Tis well that some sage instinct, when the stars​

Come forth at evening, keeps Thee still and mute;​

For not an eyelid could to sleep incline​

Wert thou among them, singing as they shine! ​

@Asheer @kool~nomi @white_rose991 @Don @Star24 @sherry2112 @ChoCo @Nelly @faari @Pari

 

[*Sarlaa*]

​

British Freedom​

​

It is not to be thought of that the Flood ​

Of British freedom, which, to the open sea​

Of the world's praise, from dark antiquity​

Hath flowed, 'with pomp of waters, unwithstood,'​

Roused though it be full often to a mood​

Which spurns the check of salutary bands,​

That this most famous Stream in bogs and sands​

Should perish; and to evil and to good​

Be lost for ever. In our halls is hung​

Armoury of the invincible Knights of old:​

We must be free or die, who speak the tongue​

That Shakespeare spake; the faith and morals hold​

Which Milton held.-In every thing we are sprung​

Of Earth's first blood, have titles manifold. ​

@Asheer @kool~nomi @white_rose991 @Don @Star24 @sherry2112 @ChoCo @Nelly @faari @Pari

 

[*Sarlaa*]

Calais, August 15, 1802​

​

FESTIVALS have I seen that were not names:​

This is young Buonaparte's natal day,​

And his is henceforth an established sway-​

Consul for life. With worship France proclaims​

Her approbation, and with pomps and games.​

Heaven grant that other Cities may be gay!​

Calais is not: and I have bent my way​

To the sea-coast, noting that each man frames​

His business as he likes. Far other show​

My youth here witnessed, in a prouder time; ​

The senselessness of joy was then sublime!​

Happy is he, who, caring not for Pope,​

Consul, or King, can sound himself to know​

The destiny of Man, and live in hope. ​

@Asheer @kool~nomi @white_rose991 @Don @Star24 @sherry2112 @ChoCo @Nelly @faari @Pari

 

[kingnomi]

Nice collection @Sarlaa_TM

 

[faari]

aj kl k halaat k lye perfect hai we must be free or dienice