Poems by William Wordsworth

Poems by William Wordsworth

The Affliction of Margaret, by William Wordsworth

I Where art thou, my beloved Son,
Where art thou, worse to me than dead?
Oh find me, pros...

After Visiting the Field of Waterloo, by William Wordsworth

A wingè d Goddess, clothed in vesture wrought
Of rainbow colours; One whose port was bol...

Aix-la-Chappelle, by William Wordsworth

Was it to disenchant, and to undo,
That we approached the Seat of Charlemaine?
To sweep from ...

Alice Fell; or, Poverty, by William Wordsworth

The post-boy drove with fierce career,
For threatening clouds the moon had drowned;
When, as...

Anecdote for Fathers, by William Wordsworth

I have a boy of five years old;
His face is fair and fresh to see;
His limbs are cast in beau...

Animal Tranquility and Decay, by William Wordsworth

The little hedgerow birds,
That peck along the road, regard him not.
He travels on, and in h...

Anticipation. October, 1803, by William Wordsworth

Shout, for a mighty Victory is won!
On British ground the Invaders are laid low;
The breath o...

At Applethwaite, near Keswick, by William Wordsworth

Beaumont! It was thy wish that I should rear
A seemly Cottage in this sunny Dell,
On favoured ...

At the Grave of Burns, 1803. Seven Years after his Death, by William Wordsworth

I shiver, Spirit fierce and bold,
At thought of what I now behold:
As vapours breathed from ...

Beggars, by William Wordsworth

She had a tall man's height or more;
Her face from summer's noontide heat
No bonnet shaded, b...

Bleak Season Was It, Turbulent and Bleak, by William Wordsworth

Bleak season was it, turbulent and bleak,
When hitherward we journeyed, side by side,

The Blind Highland Boy, by William Wordsworth

Now we are tired of boisterous joy,
Have romped enough, my little Boy!
Jane hangs her head up...

Calais, August 15, 1802, by William Wordsworth

Festivals have I seen that were not names:
This is young Buonaparte's natal day,
And his is h...

Calais, August, 1802, by William Wordsworth

Is it a reed that's shaken by the wind,
Or what is it that ye go forth to see?
Lords, lawyers...

A Character, by William Wordsworth

I marvel how Nature could ever find space
For so many strange contrasts in one human face: