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    Favorite Poems
    Favorite Poems
    Favorite Poems
    Ebook147 pages1 hour

    Favorite Poems

    By William Wordsworth

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    About this ebook

    Widely considered the greatest and most influential of the English Romantic poets, William Wordsworth (1770–1850) remains today among the most admired and studied of all English writers. He is best remembered for the poems he wrote between 1798 and 1806, the period most fully represented in this selection of 39 of his most highly regarded works.
    Among them are poems from the revolutionary Lyrical Ballads of 1798, including the well-known "Lines Composed a Few Miles Above Tintern Abby"; the famous "Lucy" series of 1799; the political and social commentaries of 1802; the moving "I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud"; and the great "Ode: Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood" — all reprinted from an authoritative edition.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherDover Publications
    Release dateMay 9, 2012
    ISBN9780486153568
    Favorite Poems
    Author

    William Wordsworth

    William Wordsworth was born on 7 April 1770 at Cockermouth, in the English Lake District, the son of a lawyer. He was one of five children and developed a close bond with his only sister, Dorothy, whom he lived with for most of his life. At the age of seventeen, shortly after the deaths of his parents, Wordsworth went to St John’s College, Cambridge, and after graduating visited Revolutionary France. Upon returning to England he published his first poem and devoted himself wholly to writing. He became great friends with other Romantic poets and collaborated with Samuel Taylor Coleridge on Lyrical Ballads. In 1843, he succeeded Robert Southey as Poet Laureate and died in the year ‘Prelude’ was finally published, 1850.

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    • 4/5
      A brief but complete compilation of poems to get to know Longfellow.I loved "The courtship of Miles Standish" and his nostalgic recollections of lost times and youth. Very sensitive and solemn, good to be aware of the earth beneath your feet.
    • 4/5
      I never understood the need for poetry and I have always had trouble with reading the written poetic forms but I sure do like Mr. Longfellow's storytelling.

    Book preview

    Favorite Poems - William Wordsworth

    We Are Seven

    ——A simple Child,

    That lightly draws its breath,

    And feels its life in every limb,

    What should it know of death?

    I met a little cottage Girl:

    She was eight years old, she said;

    Her hair was thick with many a curl

    That clustered round her head.

    She had a rustic, woodland air,

    And she was wildly clad:

    Her eyes were fair, and very fair;

    —Her beauty made me glad.

    " Sisters and brothers, little Maid,

    How many may you be ? "

    How many? Seven in all, she said

    And wondering looked at me.

    And where are they? I pray you tell.

    She answered, " Seven are we;

    And two of us at Conway dwell,

    And two are gone to sea.

    "Two of us in the church-yard lie,

    My sister and my brother;

    And, in the church-yard cottage, I

    Dwell near them with my mother."

    " You say that two at Conway dwell,

    And two are gone to sea,

    Yet ye are seven !—I pray you tell,

    Sweet Maid, how this may be."

    Then did the little Maid reply,

    " Seven boys and girls are we;

    Two of us in the church-yard lie,

    Beneath the church-yard tree."

    " You run about, my little Maid,

    Your limbs they are alive;

    If two are in the church-yard laid,

    Then ye are only five."

    Their graves are green, they may be seen,

    The little Maid replied,

    " Twelve steps or more from my mother’s door,

    And they are side by side.

    " My stockings there I often knit,

    My kerchief there I hem;

    And there upon the ground I sit,

    And sing a song to them.

    " And often after sunset, Sir,

    When it is light and fair,

    I take my little porringer,

    And eat my supper there.

    " The first that died was sister Jane;

    In bed she moaning lay,

    Till God released her of her pain;

    And then she went away.

    " So in the church-yard she was laid;

    And, when the grass was dry,

    Together round her grave we played,

    My brother John and I.

    " And when the ground was white with snow,

    And I could run and slide,

    My brother John was forced to go,

    And he lies by her side."

    How many are you, then, said I,

    If they two are in heaven?

    Quick was the little Maid’s reply,

    O Master! we are seven.

    " But they are dead; those two are dead !

    Their spirits are in heaven ! "

    ’T was throwing words away; for still

    The little Maid would have her will,

    And said, Nay, we are seven!

    Anecdote for Fathers

    I have a boy of five years old;

    His face is fair and fresh to see;

    His limbs are cast in beauty’s mould,

    And dearly he loves me.

    One morn we strolled on our dry walk,

    Our quiet home all full in view,

    And held such intermitted talk

    As we are wont to do.

    My thoughts on former pleasures ran;

    I thought of Kilve’s delightful shore,

    Our pleasant home when spring began,

    A long, long year before.

    A day it was when I could bear

    Some fond regrets to entertain;

    With so much happiness to spare,

    I could not feel a pain.

    The green earth echoed to the feet

    Of lambs that bounded through the glade,

    From shade to sunshine, and as fleet

    From sunshine back to shade.

    Birds warbled round me—and each trace

    Of inward sadness had its charm;

    Kilve, thought I, was a favoured place,

    And so is Liswyn farm.

    My boy beside me tripped, so slim

    And graceful in his rustic dress !

    And, as we talked, I questioned him,

    In very idleness.

    Now tell me, had you rather be,

    I said, and took him by the arm,

    " On Kilve’s smooth shore, by the green sea,

    Or here at Liswyn farm? "

    In careless mood he looked at me,

    While still I held him by the arm,

    And said, " At Kilve I ’d rather be

    Than here at Liswyn farm."

    " Now, little Edward, say why so:

    My little Edward, tell me why."—

    I cannot tell, I do not know.—

    Why, this is strange, said I;

    " For, here are woods, hills smooth and warm:

    There surely must some reason be

    Why you would change sweet Liswyn farm

    For Kilve by the green sea."

    At this, my boy hung down his head,

    He blushed with shame, nor made reply;

    And three times to the child I said,

    Why, Edward, tell me why?

    His head he raised—there was in sight,

    It caught his eye, he saw it plain—

    Upon the house-top, glittering bright,

    A broad and gilded vane.

    Then did the boy his tongue unlock,

    And eased his mind with this reply:

    " At Kilve there was no weather-cock;

    And that ’s the reason why."

    O dearest, dearest boy! my heart

    For better lore would seldom yearn,

    Could I but teach the hundredth part

    Of what from thee I learn.

    Simon Lee

    THE OLD HUNTSMAN; WITH AN INCIDENT IN WHICH HE

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