Oh Wordsworth! Wordsworth!
Oh Wordsworth! Wordsworth!
In vain you have scattered thy heavy words
Unanchored by human character, sighing, suffering or thought
They to be scudded by the winds towards
Nothing, but a pile of chaffs and morsels in midfield of naught
But once you did captivate the heart of a lad and lass
When you wrote about the splendor in the grass
Tented with the canopy of the glory of the flower
Since then your prose froze, sank never again to tower
Yet to the above well deserved praise
one small correction I am obliged to raise
This is done without any malice or bad intention
but the fact of truth should not be snaffled its mention
That these soft lines of human treasure
were buried in 'ode' beyond any measure
under the weight of ten stanzas that ware wilt any reader pleasure
Oh Wordsworth if you had just written half less
your message and verse would have so much more grace
Failing to recite your long lines of 'nature' at school
The teacher called me loud and clear ‘You damned fool’
Stone cold at heart she could never feel or tell
How arid, dull to death and ludicrous was ‘Peter bell’
Oh Wordsworth! Wordsworth!
In your rather long and tedious “Excursion”
A quarto that hold several hundreds pages
You have given a sample from the vasty version
Of your “new system” to perplex the sages
I assume that he who understands it would be able
To resolve the confusion at the tower of Babel
Oh Wordsworth! Wordsworth!
In vain you have summoned the earth, sun and creeks
That rush in the maze of forest gloom
Your verse is doused with heavy dunce to be a doom
And never your pen treads with your colleagues peaks
The wording of your prose in human aspect is low
It teaches me the nothingness of things
Word after word line by line about nothing
You gathered winds and storms but never let them see a show
The anticipated climax that never culminated into its conclusion
The converging clouds dissipated leaving the reader struck with illusion
But some dignitary scholars of the world idol you
As the distinguished poet of nature
They teach your philosophy in every college lecture
“He who has mourned and wept to know
The sweet memories of childhood, friendship and love first glow
Once they leave us, we forever live in vexing pain of their shadow”
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Our Wordsworth
Oh! Wordsworth, Oh! Wordsworth …
We are still in debt to you, and we will have to be.
You enhanced the strength of poetry.
You made a marvelous tune to enrich poetry.
Oh! Wordsworth …
We can now clarify our thoughts with extend because of you, Wordsworth.
You euphonized poetry without the indenture- but with moderation,
and it's decorous.
This will be evergreen, and everlasting.
It's a mnemonics and I always follow it.
Oh! Wordsworth…
poem by Bibhakar Dutta
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The Lake Poets
You have heard of William Wordsworth he was bard of Cockermouth
And he truly was a great poet if that ever was in doubt
And with Southey and With Coleridge they became known as the lake poets
And they made the Lake District famous and some famous poems they wrote.
Robert Southey was a fine poet he was slave to poetry
And he was for awhile Poet Laureate proves the great poet he must be
And though he is not well known as Coleridge and Wordsworth's is a greater name
He tends to be under rated and deserve a better fame.
And as for Samuel Taylor Coleridge a name verse critics celebrate
His works were born of genius a poetic all time great
The Rhyme Of The Ancient Mariner his masterpiece and some say
Is even greater than the famous elegy of Gray
And as for himself Will Wordsworth his fame seem to grow and grow
He has fifty times as many readers nowadays as he had one hundred years ago
When one talks of poets and poetry Wordsworth's name can't be left out
A testimony to the greatness of the Bard of Cockermouth.
Coleridge, Southey and Wordsworth geniuses all three
Their names inscribed in glory and poetic history
They lived in the Lake District that beautiful English country side
And due to the fame of these men the Lake District is known World wide.
poem by Francis Duggan
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We learned in the university to consider Wordsworth and Keats as Romantics. They were only a generation apart, but Wordsworth didn't even read Keats's book when he gave him a copy.
Help Me Sir
Come along Milton with Wordsworth.
Incorporate me with thy abundant words.
The twentysix letters attracted me in truth
Cool like a pool with irresistible bliss.
Wanting to reach the summit like thee,
Waiting for thee to gift me with thy
Scholarliness of English in a spree.
Word power be enlightened, I vow.
Please come along Milton with Wordsworth.
Confusing, where to put'to'or'for'or'with
'The twentysix letters permuted in dense
Combination make me badly tense.
Swear by thy pristine knowledge
To mould me into thy design
To breath in thy zeal.A poetic bondage.
Thus spake, a desciple of thy design.
Pardon me, canst not write high.
So thee shouldst feel my cry.
Please come along Milton with Wordsworth!
poem by Indira Renganathan
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Poets of Great Renown
Samuel Taylor Coleridge
and William Wordsworth were
eighteenth-nineteenth Century
British Poets of renown...
they collaborated in fine
lyrical ballad style, both
loving the rhythm and rhyme
of Shakespeare, his sonnets
and his plays.
In seventeen ninety six
Wordsworth and Coleridge met,
becoming 'poetry' friends,
but sadly with time their
friendship ended.
I quote just four lines from their
lengthy poem of imagination..
The Ancient Mariner.
'He prayeth best, who loveth best
All things both great and small
For the dear God who loveth us
He made ~ and loveth all'
poem by Joyce Hemsley
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I Read A Small Poem Of Wordsworth
I READ A SMALL POEM OF WORDSWORTH
I read a small poem of Wordsworth,
Far greater than any of mine-
The greatest Ambition is not great enough,
To make God’s higher light shine.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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What though the radiance which was once so bright Be not forever taken from my sight, Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower Strength in what remains behind, In the primal sympathy Which having been must ever be, In the soothing thoughts that spring Out of Human suffering, In the faith that looks through death In years that bring philophic mind.
quote by William Wordsworth
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Take From Wordsworth The Love of Calm Beauty
I TAKE FROM WORDSWORTH THE LOVE OF CALM BEAUTY
I take from Wordsworth the Love of Calm Beauty-
From Coleridge distracted searching for an Idea of it all-
From Borges the Pleasure in stories of Mind-
From Hopkins Alliteration’s passion in Poetry's Despair-
From Dickinson enigmatic perceiving of Infinity not found-
From Shakespeare more than I can name or hear-
From Psalms the God I Need and I Fear.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Wisdom and spirit of the Universe Thou soul is the eternity of thought That giv'st to forms and images a breath And everlasting motion Not in vain By day or star-light thus from by first dawn Of childhood didst thou intertwine for me The passions that build up our human soul, Not with the mean and vulgar works of man, But with high objects, with enduring things, With life and nature, purifying thus The elements of feeling and of thought, And sanctifying, by such discipline Both pain and fear, until we recognize A grandeur in the beatings of the heart.
quote by William Wordsworth
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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.
poem by William Wordsworth
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That though the radiance which was once so bright be now forever taken from my sight. Though nothing can bring back the hour of splendor in the grass, glory in the flower. We will grieve not, rather find strength in what remains behind.
quote by William Wordsworth
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Come forth into the light of things, let nature be your teacher.
quote by William Wordsworth
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Eighteenth-Nineteenth Century Verse
France is the country of poems and prose
the lovely French language tells us so.
Romantic love in classical verse
dates back to Voltaire from days long ago.
The 18th century brought poets from Paris
writing about France and the Seine,
and so many other Parisian wonders
that lie in that fertile plain.
Yes France was a country of talent
In England, Wordsworth stole the scene
whilst Coleridge, another fine English poet
wrote lyrical verse about Pastures Green.
poem by Joyce Hemsley
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Memorial Verses
Goethe in Weimar sleeps, and Greece,
Long since, saw Byron's struggle cease.
But one such death remain'd to come;
The last poetic voice is dumb--
We stand to-day by Wordsworth's tomb.
When Byron's eyes were shut in death,
We bow'd our head and held our breath.
He taught us little; but our soul
Had felt him like the thunder's roll.
With shivering heart the strife we saw
Of passion with eternal law;
And yet with reverential awe
We watch'd the fount of fiery life
Which served for that Titanic strife.
When Goethe's death was told, we said:
Sunk, then, is Europe's sagest head.
Physician of the iron age,
Goethe has done his pilgrimage.
He took the suffering human race,
He read each wound, each weakness clear;
And struck his finger on the place,
And said: Thou ailest here, and here!
He look'd on Europe's dying hour
Of fitful dream and feverish power;
His eye plunged down the weltering strife,
The turmoil of expiring life--
He said: The end is everywhere,
Art still has truth, take refuge there!
And he was happy, if to know
Causes of things, and far below
His feet to see the lurid flow
Of terror, and insane distress,
And headlong fate, be happiness.
And Wordsworth!--Ah, pale ghosts, rejoice!
For never has such soothing voice
Been to your shadowy world convey'd,
Since erst, at morn, some wandering shade
Heard the clear song of Orpheus come
Through Hades, and the mournful gloom.
Wordsworth has gone from us--and ye,
Ah, may ye feel his voice as we!
He too upon a wintry clime
Had fallen--on this iron time
Of doubts, disputes, distractions, fears.
He found us when the age had bound
Our souls in its benumbing round;
He spoke, and loosed our heart in tears.
He laid us as we lay at birth
On the cool flowery lap of earth,
Smiles broke from us and we had ease;
The hills were round us, and the breeze
Went o'er the sun-lit fields again;
Our foreheads felt the wind and rain.
Our youth return'd; for there was shed
On spirits that had long been dead,
Spirits dried up and closely furl'd,
The freshness of the early world.
Ah! since dark days still bring to light
Man's prudence and man's fiery might,
Time may restore us in his course
Goethe's sage mind and Byron's force;
But where will Europe's latter hour
Again find Wordsworth's healing power?
Others will teach us how to dare,
And against fear our breast to steel;
Others will strengthen us to bear--
But who, ah! who, will make us feel?
The cloud of mortal destiny,
Others will front it fearlessly--
But who, like him, will put it by?
Keep fresh the grass upon his grave,
O Rotha, with thy living wave!
Sing him thy best! for few or none
Hears thy voice right, now he is gone.
April 1850
poem by Matthew Arnold
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About The Nightingale
From a letter from STC to Wordsworth after writing The Nightingale:
In stale blank verse a subject stale
I send per post my Nightingale;
And like an honest bard, dear Wordsworth,
You'll tell me what you think, my Bird's worth.
My own opinion's briefly this--
His bill he opens not amiss;
And when he has sung a stave or so,
His breast, & some small space below,
So throbs & swells, that you might swear
No vulgar music's working there.
So far, so good; but then, 'od rot him!
There's something falls off at his bottom.
Yet, sure, no wonder it should breed,
That my Bird's Tail's a tail indeed
And makes it's own inglorious harmony
Æolio crepitû, non carmine.
poem by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
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Written in Early Spring
I heard a thousand blended notes
While in a grove I sat reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.
To her fair works did Nature link
The human soul that through me ran;
And much it grieved my heart to think
What Man has made of Man.
Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower,
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
And 'tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.
The birds around me hopped and played,
Their thoughts I cannot measure -
But the least motion which they made
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.
The budding twigs spread out their fan
To catch the breezy air;
And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.
If this belief from heaven be sent,
If such be Nature's holy plan,
Have I not reason to lament
What Man has made of Man?
poem by William Wordsworth
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Composed While The Author Was Engaged In Writing A Tract Occasioned By The Convention Of Cintra
NOT 'mid the world's vain objects that enslave
The free-born Soul--that World whose vaunted skill
In selfish interest perverts the will,
Whose factions lead astray the wise and brave--
Not there; but in dark wood and rocky cave,
And hollow vale which foaming torrents fill
With omnipresent murmur as they rave
Down their steep beds, that never shall be still:
Here, mighty Nature! in this school sublime
I weigh the hopes and fears of suffering Spain;
For her consult the auguries of time,
And through the human heart explore my way;
And look and listen--gathering, whence I may,
Triumph, and thoughts no bondage can restrain.
poem by William Wordsworth
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The Table Turned
Up! up! my Friend, and quit your books;
Or surely you'll grow double:
Up! up! my Friend, and clear your looks;
Why all this toil and trouble?
The sun, above the mountain's head,
A freshening lustre mellow
Through all the long green fields has spread,
His first sweet evening yellow.
Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife:
Come, hear the woodland linnet,
How sweet his music! on my life,
There's more of wisdom in it.
And hark! how blithe the throstle sings!
He, too, is no mean preacher:
Come forth into the light of things,
Let Nature be your teacher.
She has a world of ready wealth,
Our minds and hearts to bless--
Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health,
Truth breathed by cheerfulness.
One impulse from a vernal wood
May teach you more of man,
Of moral evil and of good,
Than all the sages can.
Sweet is the lore which Nature brings;
Our meddling intellect
Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things:--
We murder to dissect.
Enough of Science and of Art;
Close up those barren leaves;
Come forth, and bring with you a heart
That watches and receives.
poem by William Wordsworth
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Nature never did betray the heart that loved her.
quote by William Wordsworth
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Nature never did betray The heart that loved her.
quote by William Wordsworth
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