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Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms,

Thy memory be as a dwelling-place For all sweet sounds and harmonies; oh, then,

If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief, Should be thy portion, with what

healing thoughts Of tender joy wilt thou remember


And these my exhortations! nor,

perchance, If I should be where I no more can


Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild

eyes these gleams Of past existence, wilt thou then


That on the banks of this delightful stream

We stood together; and that I, so long

A worshipper of Nature, hither came, Unwearied in that service: rather say With warmer love; oh, with far

deeper zeal Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then


That after many wanderings, many years

Of absence, these steep woods and

lofty cliffs, And this green pastoral landscape,

were to me More dear, both for themselves and

for thy sake.

[From The Excursion.]


One adequate support For the calamities of mortal life Exists — one only — an assured belief That the procession of our fate, however

Sad or disturbed, is ordered by a Being

Of infinite benevolence and power, Whose everlasting purposes embrace All accidents, converting them to good.

The darts of anguish fix not where the seat

Of suffering hath been thoroughly fortified

By acquiescence in the Will supreme, For time and for eternity— by faith, Faith absolute in God, including hope.

And the defence that lies in boundless love

Of His perfections; with habitual dread

Of aught unworthily conceived, endured

Impatiently, ill-done, or left undone To the dishonor of His holy name. Soul of our souls, and safeguard of

the world, Sustain, Thou only canst, the sick of


Restore their languid spirits, and recall

Their lost affections unto Thee and Thine!

[From The Excursion.]


Oh, many are the poets that are sown

By Nature! men endowed with highest gifts — The vision, and the faculty divine — Yet wanting the accomplishment of verse

(Which in the docile season of their youth

It was denied them to acquire,

through lack Of culture and the inspiring aid of


Or haply by a temper too severe; Or a nice backwardness afraid of shame),

Nor, having e'er as life advanced,

been led

By circumstance to take unto the height

The measure of themselves, these

favored beings. All but a scattered few, live out their


Husbanding that which they possess within,

And go to the grave unthought of.

Strongest minds Are often those of whom the noisy

world hears least.

[From The Excursion.]

Almost at the root Of that tall pine, the shadow of

whose bare And slender stem, while here I sit at


Oft stretches towards me, like a long

straight path Traced faintly in the greensward;

there beneath A plain blue stone, a gentle dalesman


From whom, in early childhood, was

withdrawn The precious gift of hearing. He

grew up

From year to year in loneliness of soul;

And this deep mountain valley was to him

Soundless, with all its streams. The

bird of dawn Did never rouse this cottager from


With startling summons; nor for his delight

The vernal cuckoo shouted; not for him

Murmured the laboring bee. When

stormy winds Were working the broad bosom of

the lake

Into a thousand thousand sparkling waves,

Rocking the trees, or driving cloud on cloud

Along the sharp edge of yon lofty crags,

The agitated seer e before his eye was silent as a picture: evermore Were all things silent, wheresoe'er

he moved; Yet, by the solace of his own pure


Upheld, he duteously pursued the round

Of rural labors; the steep mountainside

Ascended, with his staff and faithful dog;

The plough he guided, and the scythe

he swayed; And the ripe corn before his sickle


Among the jocund reapers. For himself,

All watchful and industrious as he was,

He wrought not; neither flock nor

field he owned; No wish for wealth had place within

his mind: Nor husband's love, nor father's hope

or care.

Though born a younger brother, need

was none That from the floor of his paternal


He should depart to plant himself anew;

And when, mature in manhood, he beheld

His parents laid in earth, no loss ensued

Of rights to him; but he remained

well pleased, By the pure bond of independent


An inmate of a second family,
The fellow-laborer and friend of him
To whom the small inheritance had

Nor deem that his mild presence was a weight

That pressed upon his brother's

house, for books Were ready comrades whom he could

not tire.

Of whose society the blameless man Was never satiate. Their familiar voice,

Even to old age, with unabated charm

Beguiled his leisure hours, refreshed

his thoughts; Beyond its natural elevation, raised His introverted spirit, and bestowed Upon his life an outward dignity Which all acknowledged. The dark

winter night,

The stormy day, had each its own resource;

Song of the muses, sage historic tale,
per severe, or word of Holy Writ
Announcing immortality and joy
To the assembled spirits of the just,
From imperfection and decay secure.
Thus soothed at home, thus busy in
the field,

To no perverse suspicion he gave way,

No languor, peevishness, nor vain

complaint: And they, who were about him, did

not fail

In reverence, or in courtesy; they prized

His gentle manners; and his peaceful smiles,

The gleams of his slow-varying countenance.

Were met with answering sympathy and love.

At length, when sixty years and

five were told, A slow disease insensibly consumed The powers of nature; and a few

short steps Of friends and kindred bore him

from his home (Yon cottage shaded by the woody


To the profounder stillness of the grave.

Nor was his funeral denied the grace Of many tears, virtuous and thoughtful grief;

Heart-sorrow rendered sweet by gratitude.

And now that monumental stone preserves

His name, and unambitiously relates How long, and by what kindly outward aids, And in what pure contentedness of mind,

The sad privation was by him endured.

And yon tall pine-tree, whose composing sound

Was wasted on the good man's living ear,

Hath now its own peculiar sanctity;

And, at the touch of every wandering breeze.

Murmurs, not idly, o'er his peaceful grave.


Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:

The soul that rises with us, our life's star,

Hath had elsewhere its setting,

And cometh from afar; Not in entire forgetfulness, And not in utter nakedness, But trailing clouds of glory do we come

From God, who is our home: Heaven lies about us in our infancy! Shades of the prison-house begin to close

Upon the growing boy, But he beholds the light, and whence it flows,

He sees it in his joy; The youth, who daily farther from the east

Must travel, still is Nature's priest, And by the vision splendid Is on his way attended; At length the man perceives it die away,

And fade into the light of common day.

O joy! that in our embers Is something that doth live, That Nature yet remembers What was so fugitive! The thought of our past years in me

doth breed Perpetual benedictions: not indeed For that which is most worthy to be blessed;

Delight and liberty, the simple creed Of childhood, whether busy or at rest,

With new-fledged hope still fluttering
in his breast:
Not for these I raise
The song of thanks and praise;

But for those obstinate questionings

Of sense and outward things, Fallings from us, vanishings; Black misgivings of a creature Moving about in worlds not realized, High instincts, before which our

mortal nature Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised!

But for those first affections, Those shadowy recollections, Which, be they what they may, Are yet the fountain light of all our day,

Are yet a master light of all our seeing;

Uphold us — Cherish — and have power to make Our noisy years seem moments in the being

Of the eternal silence: truths that
To perish never;
Which neither listlessness, nor mad
Nor man nor boy,
Nor all that is at enmity with joy,
Can utterly abolish or destroy!
Hence, in a season of calm weather,
Though inland far we be,
Our souls have sight of that immor-
tal sea

Which brought us hither;
Can in a moment travel thither,
And see the children sport upon the

And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.



Dear child of nature, let them rail!

— There is a nest in a green dale,

A harbor and a hold,

Where thou, a wife and friend, shalt


Thy own delightful days, and be
A light to young and old.

There, healthy as a shepherd-boy,
As if thy heritage were joy,
And pleasure were thy trade,
Thou, while thy babes around thee

Shalt show us how divine a thing
A woman may be made.

Thy thoughts and feelings shall not die,

Nor leave thee when gray hairs are

A melancholy slave;
But an old age serene and bright,
And lovely as a Lapland night,
Shall lead thee to thy grave.


I Wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and

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 never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly

The waves beside them danced, but they

Outdid the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed and gazed, but little thought
What wealth the show to me had

For oft when on my couch I lie,
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude,"
And then my heart with pleasure

And dances with the daffodils.


Hail, Twilight, sovereign of one

peaceful hour! Not dull art thou as undiscerning


But studious only to remove from sight

Day's mutable distinctions. Ancient power!

Thus did the waters gleam, the mountains lower

To the rude Briton, when, in wolfskin vest

Here roving wild, he laid him down to rest

On the bare rock, or through a leafy bower

Looked ere his eyes were closed. By

him was seen The selfsame vision which we now


At thy meek bidding, shadowy power, brought forth;

These mighty barriers, and the gulf between;

The floods, — the stars; a spectacle as old

As the beginning of the heavens and earth!

TO SLEEP. A Flock of sheep that leisurely pass


One after one; the sound of rain, and bees

Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds, and seas.

Smooth fields, white sheets of water,

and pure sky; I've thought of all by turns; and still

I lie

Sleepless; and soon the small bird's


Must hear, first uttered from my orchard trees;

And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry.

Even thus last night, and two nights

more, I lay, And could not win thee, Sleep! by

any stealth:

So do not let me wear to-night away: Without thee what is all the morning's wealth? Come, blessed barrier betwixt day and day,

Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!


She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove;

A maid whom there were none to
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!


Why art thou silent! Is thy love a plant

Of such weak fibre that the treacherous air

Of absence withers what was once so fair?

Is there no debt to pay, no boon to grant?

Yet have my thoughts for thee been vigilant.

Bound to thy service with unceasing care —

The mind's least generous wish a

mendicant For nought but what thy happiness

could spare.

Speak!—though this soft warm heart, once free to hold

A thousand tender pleasures, thine and mine,

Be left more desolate, more dreary cold

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