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Best Of william wordsworth Poetry and poems, Quotes New Hindi Shayari
Best Of william wordsworth Poetry and poems, Quotes
A Slumber Did My Spirit Seal
By William Wordsworth - 1770-1850
A slumber did my spirit seal;I had no human fears:She seemed a thing that could not feelThe touch of earthly years.No motion has she now, no force;She neither hears nor sees;Rolled round in earth's diurnal course,With rocks, and stones, and trees.
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from The Kitten and Falling Leaves
By William Wordsworth - 1770-1850
See the kitten on the wall, sporting with the leaves that fall,Withered leaves—one—two—and three, from the lofty elder-tree!Through the calm and frosty air, of this morning bright and fair . . .—But the kitten, how she starts; Crouches, stretches, paws, and darts!First at one, and then its fellow, just as light and just as yellow;There are many now—now one—now they stop and there are none;What intenseness of desire, in her upward eye of fire!With a tiger-leap half way, now she meets the coming prey,Lets it go as fast, and then, has it in her power again:Now she works with three or four, like an Indian Conjuror;Quick as he in feats of art, far beyond in joy of heart.
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My Heart Leaps Up
By William Wordsworth - 1770-1850
My heart leaps up when I beholdA rainbow in the sky:So was it when my life began;So is it now I am a man;So be it when I shall grow old,Or let me die!The Child is father of the Man;And I could wish my days to beBound each to each by natural piety.
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Ode on Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood
By William Wordsworth - 1770-1850
There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,The earth, and every common sightTo me did seemApparelled in celestial light,The glory and the freshness of a dream.It is not now as it hath been of yore;—Turn wheresoe'er I may,By night or day,The things which I have seen I now can see no more.The rainbow comes and goes,And lovely is the rose;The moon doth with delightLook round her when the heavens are bare;Waters on a starry nightAre beautiful and fair;The sunshine is a glorious birth;But yet I know, where'er I go,That there hath past away a glory from the earth.Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song,And while the young lambs boundAs to the tabor's sound,To me alone there came a thought of grief:A timely utterance gave that thought relief,And I again am strong.The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep,—No more shall grief of mine the season wrong:I hear the echoes through the mountains throng.The winds come to me from the fields of sleep,And all the earth is gay;Land and seaGive themselves up to jollity,And with the heart of MayDoth every beast keep holiday;—Thou child of joy,Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happyShepherd-boy!Ye blesséd Creatures, I have heard the callYe to each other make; I seeThe heavens laugh with you in your jubilee;My heart is at your festival,My head hath its coronal,The fulness of your bliss, I feel—I feel it all.O evil day! if I were sullenWhile Earth herself is adorningThis sweet May-morning;And the children are cullingOn every sideIn a thousand valleys far and wideFresh flowers; while the sun shines warm,And the babe leaps up on his mother's arm:—I hear, I hear, with joy I hear!—But there's a tree, of many, one,A single field which I have look'd upon,Both of them speak of something that is gone:The pansy at my feetDoth the same tale repeat:Whither is fled the visionary gleam?Where is it now, the glory and the dream?Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting;The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star,Hath had elsewhere its settingAnd cometh from afar;Not in entire forgetfulness,And not in utter nakedness,But trailing clouds of glory do we comeFrom God, who is our home:Heaven lies about us in our infancy!Shades of the prison-house begin to closeUpon 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 eastMust travel, still is Nature's priest,And by the vision splendidIs on his way attended;At length the Man perceives it die away,And fade into the light of common day.Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own;Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind,And, even with something of a mother's mind,And no unworthy aim,The homely nurse doth all she canTo make her foster-child, her inmate, Man,Forget the glories he hath known,And that imperial palace whence he came.Behold the Child among his new-born blisses,A six years' darling of a pigmy size!See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies,Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses,With light upon him from his father's eyes!See, at his feet, some little plan or chart,Some fragment from his dream of human life,Shaped by himself with newly-learned art;A wedding or a festival,A mourning or a funeral;And this hath now his heart,And unto this he frames his song:Then will he fit his tongueTo dialogues of business, love, or strife;But it will not be longEre this be thrown aside,And with new joy and prideThe little actor cons another part;Filling from time to time his 'humorous stage'With all the Persons, down to palsied Age,That life brings with her in her equipage;As if his whole vocationWere endless imitation.Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belieThy soul's immensity;Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keepThy heritage, thou eye among the blind,That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep,Haunted for ever by the eternal Mind,—Mighty Prophet! Seer blest!On whom those truths restWhich we are toiling all our lives to find,In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave;Thou, over whom thy ImmortalityBroods like the day, a master o'er a slave,A Presence which is not to be put by;To whom the graveIs but a lonely bed, without the sense of sightOf day or the warm light,A place of thoughts where we in waiting lie;Thou little child, yet glorious in the mightOf heaven-born freedom on thy being's height,Why with such earnest pains dost thou provokeThe years to bring the inevitable yoke,Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife?Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight,And custom lie upon thee with a weightHeavy as frost, and deep almost as life!0 joy! that in our embersIs something that doth live,That Nature yet remembersWhat was so fugitive!The thought of our past years in me doth breedPerpetual benediction: not indeedFor that which is most worthy to be blest,Delight and liberty, the simple creedOf Childhood, whether busy or at rest,With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast:——Not for these I raiseThe song of thanks and praise;But for those obstinate questioningsOf sense and outward things,Fallings from us, vanishings,Blank misgivings of a creatureMoving about in worlds not realized,High instincts, before which our mortal natureDid 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 makeOur noisy years seem moments in the beingOf the eternal Silence: truths that wake,To perish never;Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour,Nor man nor boy,Nor all that is at enmity with joy,Can utterly abolish or destroy!Hence, in a season of calm weatherThough inland far we be,Our souls have sight of that immortal seaWhich brought us hither;Can in a moment travel thither—And see the children sport upon the shore,And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.Then, sing, ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song!And let the young lambs boundAs to the tabor's sound!We, in thought, will join your throng,Ye that pipe and ye that play,Ye that through your hearts to-dayFeel the gladness of the May!What though the radiance which was once so brightBe now for ever taken from my sight,Though nothing can bring back the hourOf splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;We will grieve not, rather findStrength in what remains behind;In the primal sympathyWhich having been must ever be;In the soothing thoughts that springOut of human suffering;In the faith that looks through death,In years that bring the philosophic mind.And 0, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves,Forebode not any severing of our loves!Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;I only have relinquish'd one delightTo live beneath your more habitual sway;I love the brooks which down their channels fretEven more than when I tripp'd lightly as they;The innocent brightness of a new-born dayIs lovely yet;The clouds that gather round the setting sunDo take a sober colouring from an eyeThat hath kept watch o'er man's mortality;Another race hath been, and other palms are won.Thanks to the human heart by which we live,Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,To me the meanest flower that blows can giveThoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
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I wandered lonely as a Cloud
By William Wordsworth - 1770-1850
I wandered lonely as a CloudThat floats on high o'er Vales and Hills,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 shineAnd twinkle on the Milky Way,They stretched in never-ending lineAlong the margin of a bay:Ten thousand saw I at a glance,Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.The waves beside them danced, but theyOut-did the sparkling waves in glee:—A Poet could not but be gayIn such a jocund company:I gazed—and gazed—but little thoughtWhat wealth the shew to me had brought:For oft when on my couch I lieIn vacant or in pensive mood,They flash upon that inward eyeWhich is the bliss of solitude,And then my heart with pleasure fills,And dances with the Daffodils.
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