The Poetical Works of William Wordsworth, Band 2

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Longman, Rees, Orme, Brown, and Green, 1827
 

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Seite 60 - SHE was a Phantom of delight When first she gleamed upon my sight ; A lovely Apparition, sent To be a moment's ornament ; Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair ; .Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair ; But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful Dawn; A dancing Shape, an Image gay, To haunt, to startle, and way-lay.
Seite 286 - IT is a beauteous evening, calm and free ; The holy time is quiet as a Nun Breathless with adoration...
Seite 64 - The floating clouds their state shall lend To her; for her the willow bend; Nor shall she fail to see Even in the motions of the storm Grace that shall mould the maiden's form By silent sympathy. 'The stars of midnight shall be dear To her; and she shall lean her ear In many a secret place Where rivulets dance their wayward round, And beauty born of murmuring sound Shall pass into her face.
Seite 356 - And they that shall be of thee shall build the old waste places : thou shalt raise up the foundations of many generations ; and thou shalt be called The repairer of the breach, The restorer of paths to dwell in.
Seite 289 - Sea that bares her bosom to the moon; The winds that will be howling at all hours, And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers; For this, for everything, we are out of tune; It moves us not.
Seite 182 - What then I was. The sounding cataract Haunted me like a passion : the tall rock, The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, Their colours and their forms, were then to me An appetite; a feeling and a love, 80 That had no need of a remoter charm, By thought supplied, nor any interest Unborrowed from the eye.
Seite 104 - The wind, the tempest roaring high, The tumult of a tropic sky Might well be dangerous food For him, a youth to whom was given So much of earth — so much of heaven, And such impetuous blood.
Seite 47 - Thou bringest unto me a tale Of visionary hours. Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring! Even yet thou art to me No bird, but an invisible thing, A voice, a mystery; The same whom in my school-boy days I listened to; that Cry Which made me look a thousand ways, In bush, and tree, and sky. To seek thee did I often rove Through woods and on the green; And thou wert still a hope, a love; Still longed for, never seen.
Seite 268 - Sleepless! and soon the small birds' melodies 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...
Seite 305 - SCORN not the Sonnet; Critic, you have frowned, Mindless of its just honours; with this key Shakspeare unlocked his heart; the melody Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch's wound; A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound; With it Camoens soothed an exile's grief; The Sonnet glittered a gay myrtle leaf Amid the cypress with which Dante crowned His visionary brow: a glow-worm lamp. It...

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