some famous poems of william wordsworth???

Some of the famous poems by Wordsworth are given below:

Tintern Abbey

Daffodils

London, 1802

Ode: Intimations of Immortality

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 Here are some:

 

The Tables Turned

 

rnAn Evening Scene on the Same SubjectnnUp! up! my Friend, and quit your books;nOr surely you'll grow double:nUp! up! my Friend, and clear your looks;nWhy all this toil and trouble?nnThe sun, above the mountain's head,nA freshening lustre mellownThrough all the long green fields has spread,nHis first sweet evening yellow.nnBooks! 'tis a dull and endless strife:nCome, hear the woodland linnet,nHow sweet his music! on my life,nThere's more of wisdom in it.nnAnd hark! how blithe the throstle sings!nHe, too, is no mean preacher:nCome forth into the light of things,nLet Nature be your Teacher.nnShe has a world of ready wealth,nOur minds and hearts to bless—nSpontaneous wisdom breathed by health,nTruth breathed by cheerfulness.nnOne impulse from a vernal woodnMay teach you more of man,nOf moral evil and of good,nThan all the sages can.nnSweet is the lore which Nature brings;nOur meddling intellectnMis-shapes the beauteous forms of things:—nWe murder to dissect.nnEnough of Science and of Art;nClose up those barren leaves;nCome forth, and bring with you a heartnThat watches and receives.n

 


Lines Composed a Few Miles above Tintern Abbey

 

rnFive years have passed; five summers, with the length nOf five long winters! and again I hearnThese waters, rolling from their mountain-springsnWith a soft inland murmur.  Once againnDo I behold these steep and lofty cliffs,nThat on a wild secluded scene impressnThoughts of more deep seclusion; and connectnThe landscape with the quiet of the sky.nThe day is come when I again reposenHere, under this dark sycamore, and viewnThese plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts,nWhich at this season, with their unripe fruits,nAre clad in one green hue, and lose themselvesn'Mid groves and copses. Once again I seenThese hedgerows, hardly hedgerows, little linesnOf sportive wood run wild; these pastoral farms,nGreen to the very door; and wreaths of smokenSent up, in silence, from among the trees!nWith some uncertain notice, as might seemnOf vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods,nOr of some Hermit's cave, where by his firenThe Hermit sits alone. nn                               These beauteous forms,nThrough a long absence, have not been to menAs is a landscape to a blind man's eye;nBut oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the dinnOf towns and cities, I have owed to them,nIn hours of weariness, sensations sweet,nFelt in the blood, and felt along the heart;nAnd passing even into my purer mindnWith tranquil restoration—feelings toonOf unremembered pleasure; such, perhaps,nAs have no slight or trivial influencenOn that best portion of a good man's life,nHis little, nameless, unremembered, actsnOf kindness and of love.  Nor less, I trust,nTo them I may have owed another gift,nOf aspect more sublime; that blessed mood,nIn which the burthen of the mystery,nIn which the heavy and the weary weightnOf all this unintelligible world,nIs lightened—that serene and blessed mood,nIn which the affections gently lead us on—nUntil, the breath of this corporeal framenAnd even the motion of our human bloodnAlmost suspended, we are laid asleepnIn body, and become a living soul;nWhile with an eye made quiet by the powernOf harmony, and the deep power of joy,nWe see into the life of things. nn                                           If thisnBe but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oft—nIn darkness and amid the many shapesnOf joyless daylight; when the fretful stirnUnprofitable, and the fever of the world,nHave hung upon the beatings of my heart—nHow oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee,nO sylvan Wye! thou wanderer through the woods,nHow often has my spirit turned to thee! nn  And now, with gleams of half-extinguished thought,nWith many recognitions dim and faint,nAnd somewhat of a sad perplexity,nThe picture of the mind revives again;nWhile here I stand, not only with the sensenOf present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughtsnThat in this moment there is life and foodnFor future years.  And so I dare to hope,nThough changed, no doubt, from what I was when firstnI came among these hills; when like a roenI bounded o'er the mountains, by the sidesnOf the deep rivers, and the lonely streams,nWherever nature led—more like a mannFlying from something that he dreads than onenWho sought the thing he loved.  For nature thenn(The coarser pleasures of my boyish daysnAnd their glad animal movements all gone by)nTo me was all in all.—I cannot paintnWhat then I was. The sounding cataractnHaunted me like a passion; the tall rock,nThe mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,nTheir colors and their forms, were then to menAn appetite; a feeling and a love,nThat had no need of a remoter charm,nBy thought supplied, not any interestnUnborrowed from the eye.—That time is past,nAnd all its aching joys are now no more,nAnd all its dizzy raptures. Not for thisnFaint I, nor mourn nor murmur; other giftsnHave followed; for such loss, I would believe,nAbundant recompense.  For I have learnednTo look on nature, not as in the hournOf thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimesnThe still sad music of humanity,nNor harsh nor grating, though of ample powernTo chasten and subdue.  And I have feltnA presence that disturbs me with the joynOf elevated thoughts; a sense sublimenOf something far more deeply interfused,nWhose dwelling is the light of setting suns,nAnd the round ocean and the living air, nAnd the blue sky, and in the mind of man:nA motion and a spirit, that impels nAll thinking things, all objects of all thought,nAnd rolls through all things. Therefore am I stillnA lover of the meadows and the woods,nAnd mountains; and of all that we beholdnFrom this green earth; of all the mighty worldnOf eye, and ear—both what they half create,nAnd what perceive; well pleased to recognizenIn nature and the language of the sensenThe anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse, nThe guide, the guardian of my heart, and soulnOf all my moral being. nn                                   Nor perchance,nIf I were not thus taught, should I the morenSuffer my genial spirits to decay:nFor thou art with me here upon the banksnOf this fair river; thou my dearest Friend,nMy dear, dear Friend; and in thy voice I catchnThe language of my former heart, and readnMy former pleasures in the shooting lightsnOf thy wild eyes.  Oh! yet a little whilenMay I behold in thee what I was once,nMy dear, dear Sister! and this prayer I make,nKnowing that Nature never did betraynThe heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege,nThrough all the years of this our life, to leadnFrom joy to joy: for she can so informnThe mind that is within us, so impressnWith quietness and beauty, and so feednWith lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues,nRash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men,nNor greetings where no kindness is, nor allnThe dreary intercourse of daily life,nShall e'er prevail against us, or disturbnOur cheerful faith, that all which we beholdnIs full of blessings.  Therefore let the moonnShine on thee in thy solitary walk;nAnd let the misty mountain winds be freenTo blow against thee: and, in after years,nWhen these wild ecstasies shall be maturednInto a sober pleasure; when thy mindnShall be a mansion for all lovely forms,nThy memory be as a dwelling placenFor all sweet sounds and harmonies; oh! then,nIf solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief,nShould be thy portion, with what healing thoughtsnOf tender joy wilt thou remember me,nAnd these my exhortations! Nor, perchance—nIf I should be where I no more can hearnThy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleamsnOf past existence—wilt thou then forgetnThat on the banks of this delightful streamnWe stood together; and that I, so longnA worshipper of Nature, hither camenUnwearied in that service; rather saynWith warmer love—oh! with far deeper zealnOf holier love.  Nor wilt thou then forget,nThat after many wanderings, many yearsnOf absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs,nAnd this green pastoral landscape, were to menMore dear, both for themselves and for thy sake!

 


I Wandered Lonely As A Cloud

 

rnI wandered lonely as a cloud nThat floats on high o'er vales and hills, nWhen all at once I saw a crowd, nA host, of golden daffodils; nBeside the lake, beneath the trees, nFluttering and dancing in the breeze. nnContinuous as the stars that shine nAnd twinkle on the milky way, nThey stretched in never-ending line nAlong the margin of a bay: nTen thousand saw I at a glance, nTossing their heads in sprightly dance. nnThe waves beside them danced; but they nOut-did the sparkling waves in glee: nA poet could not but be gay, nIn such a jocund company: nI gazed - and gazed - but little thought nWhat wealth the show to me had brought: nnFor oft, when on my couch I lie nIn vacant or in pensive mood, nThey flash upon that inward eye nWhich is the bliss of solitude; nAnd then my heart with pleasure fills, nAnd dances with the daffodils. n

 


Resolution And Independence

 

rn I nnThere was a roaring in the wind all night; nThe rain came heavily and fell in floods; nBut now the sun is rising calm and bright; nThe birds are singing in the distant woods; nOver his own sweet voice the Stock-dove broods; nThe Jay makes answer as the Magpie chatters; nAnd all the air is filled with pleasant noise of waters. nnII nnAll things that love the sun are out of doors; nThe sky rejoices in the morning's birth; nThe grass is bright with rain-drops;--on the moors nThe hare is running races in her mirth; nAnd with her feet she from the plashy earth nRaises a mist, that, glittering in the sun, nRuns with her all the way, wherever she doth run. nnIII nnI was a Traveller then upon the moor, nI saw the hare that raced about with joy; nI heard the woods and distant waters roar; nOr heard them not, as happy as a boy: nThe pleasant season did my heart employ: nMy old remembrances went from me wholly; nAnd all the ways of men, so vain and melancholy. nnIV nnBut, as it sometimes chanceth, from the might nOf joy in minds that can no further go, nAs high as we have mounted in delight nIn our dejection do we sink as low; nTo me that morning did it happen so; nAnd fears and fancies thick upon me came; nDim sadness--and blind thoughts, I knew not, nor could name. nnV nnI heard the sky-lark warbling in the sky; nAnd I bethought me of the playful hare: nEven such a happy Child of earth am I; nEven as these blissful creatures do I fare; nFar from the world I walk, and from all care; nBut there may come another day to me-- nSolitude, pain of heart, distress, and poverty. nnVI nnMy whole life I have lived in pleasant thought, nAs if life's business were a summer mood; nAs if all needful things would come unsought nTo genial faith, still rich in genial good; nBut how can He expect that others should nBuild for him, sow for him, and at his call nLove him, who for himself will take no heed at all? nnVII nnI thought of Chatterton, the marvellous Boy, nThe sleepless Soul that perished in his pride; nOf Him who walked in glory and in joy nFollowing his plough, along the mountain-side: nBy our own spirits are we deified: nWe Poets in our youth begin in gladness; nBut thereof come in the end despondency and madness. nnVIII nnNow, whether it were by peculiar grace, nA leading from above, a something given, nYet it befell, that, in this lonely place, nWhen I with these untoward thoughts had striven, nBeside a pool bare to the eye of heaven nI saw a Man before me unawares: nThe oldest man he seemed that ever wore grey hairs. nnIX nnAs a huge stone is sometimes seen to lie nCouched on the bald top of an eminence; nWonder to all who do the same espy, nBy what means it could thither come, and whence; nSo that it seems a thing endued with sense: nLike a sea-beast crawled forth, that on a shelf nOf rock or sand reposeth, there to sun itself; nnX nnSuch seemed this Man, not all alive nor dead, nNor all asleep--in his extreme old age: nHis body was bent double, feet and head nComing together in life's pilgrimage; nAs if some dire constraint of pain, or rage nOf sickness felt by him in times long past, nA more than human weight upon his frame had cast. nnXI nnHimself he propped, limbs, body, and pale face, nUpon a long grey staff of shaven wood: nAnd, still as I drew near with gentle pace, nUpon the margin of that moorish flood nMotionless as a cloud the old Man stood, nThat heareth not the loud winds when they call nAnd moveth all together, if it move at all. nnXII nnAt length, himself unsettling, he the pond nStirred with his staff, and fixedly did look nUpon the muddy water, which he conned, nAs if he had been reading in a book: nAnd now a stranger's privilege I took; nAnd, drawing to his side, to him did say, n"This morning gives us promise of a glorious day." nnXIII nnA gentle answer did the old Man make, nIn courteous speech which forth he slowly drew: nAnd him with further words I thus bespake, n"What occupation do you there pursue? nThis is a lonesome place for one like you." nEre he replied, a flash of mild surprise nBroke from the sable orbs of his yet-vivid eyes, nnXIV nnHis words came feebly, from a feeble chest, nBut each in solemn order followed each, nWith something of a lofty utterance drest-- nChoice word and measured phrase, above the reach nOf ordinary men; a stately speech; nSuch as grave Livers do in Scotland use, nReligious men, who give to God and man their dues. nnXV nnHe told, that to these waters he had come nTo gather leeches, being old and poor: nEmployment hazardous and wearisome! nAnd he had many hardships to endure: nFrom pond to pond he roamed, from moor to moor; nHousing, with God's good help, by choice or chance, nAnd in this way he gained an honest maintenance. nnXVI nnThe old Man still stood talking by my side; nBut now his voice to me was like a stream nScarce heard; nor word from word could I divide; nAnd the whole body of the Man did seem nLike one whom I had met with in a dream; nOr like a man from some far region sent, nTo give me human strength, by apt admonishment. nnXVII nnMy former thoughts returned: the fear that kills; nAnd hope that is unwilling to be fed; nCold, pain, and labour, and all fleshly ills; nAnd mighty Poets in their misery dead. n--Perplexed, and longing to be comforted, nMy question eagerly did I renew, n"How is it that you live, and what is it you do?" nnXVIII nnHe with a smile did then his words repeat; nAnd said, that, gathering leeches, far and wide nHe travelled; stirring thus about his feet nThe waters of the pools where they abide. n"Once I could meet with them on every side; nBut they have dwindled long by slow decay; nYet still I persevere, and find them where I may." nnXIX nnWhile he was talking thus, the lonely place, nThe old Man's shape, and speech--all troubled me: nIn my mind's eye I seemed to see him pace nAbout the weary moors continually, nWandering about alone and silently. nWhile I these thoughts within myself pursued, nHe, having made a pause, the same discourse renewed. nnXX nnAnd soon with this he other matter blended, nCheerfully uttered, with demeanour kind, nBut stately in the main; and when he ended, nI could have laughed myself to scorn to find nIn that decrepit Man so firm a mind. n"God," said I, "be my help and stay secure; nI'll think of the Leech-gatherer on the lonely moor!"

 


Written In March

 

rn The cock is crowing,nThe stream is flowing,nThe small birds twitter,nThe lake doth glittern The green field sleeps in the sun;nThe oldest and youngestnAre at work with the strongest;nThe cattle are grazing,nTheir heads never raising;n There are forty feeding like one!nnLike an army defeatednThe snow hath retreated,nAnd now doth fare illnOn the top of the bare hill;n The plowboy is whooping—anon-anon:nThere's joy in the mountains;nThere's life in the fountains;nSmall clouds are sailing,nBlue sky prevailing;n The rain is over and gone!

 


Resolution And Independence

 

rn I nnThere was a roaring in the wind all night; nThe rain came heavily and fell in floods; nBut now the sun is rising calm and bright; nThe birds are singing in the distant woods; nOver his own sweet voice the Stock-dove broods; nThe Jay makes answer as the Magpie chatters; nAnd all the air is filled with pleasant noise of waters. nnII nnAll things that love the sun are out of doors; nThe sky rejoices in the morning's birth; nThe grass is bright with rain-drops;--on the moors nThe hare is running races in her mirth; nAnd with her feet she from the plashy earth nRaises a mist, that, glittering in the sun, nRuns with her all the way, wherever she doth run. nnIII nnI was a Traveller then upon the moor, nI saw the hare that raced about with joy; nI heard the woods and distant waters roar; nOr heard them not, as happy as a boy: nThe pleasant season did my heart employ: nMy old remembrances went from me wholly; nAnd all the ways of men, so vain and melancholy. nnIV nnBut, as it sometimes chanceth, from the might nOf joy in minds that can no further go, nAs high as we have mounted in delight nIn our dejection do we sink as low; nTo me that morning did it happen so; nAnd fears and fancies thick upon me came; nDim sadness--and blind thoughts, I knew not, nor could name. nnV nnI heard the sky-lark warbling in the sky; nAnd I bethought me of the playful hare: nEven such a happy Child of earth am I; nEven as these blissful creatures do I fare; nFar from the world I walk, and from all care; nBut there may come another day to me-- nSolitude, pain of heart, distress, and poverty. nnVI nnMy whole life I have lived in pleasant thought, nAs if life's business were a summer mood; nAs if all needful things would come unsought nTo genial faith, still rich in genial good; nBut how can He expect that others should nBuild for him, sow for him, and at his call nLove him, who for himself will take no heed at all? nnVII nnI thought of Chatterton, the marvellous Boy, nThe sleepless Soul that perished in his pride; nOf Him who walked in glory and in joy nFollowing his plough, along the mountain-side: nBy our own spirits are we deified: nWe Poets in our youth begin in gladness; nBut thereof come in the end despondency and madness. nnVIII nnNow, whether it were by peculiar grace, nA leading from above, a something given, nYet it befell, that, in this lonely place, nWhen I with these untoward thoughts had striven, nBeside a pool bare to the eye of heaven nI saw a Man before me unawares: nThe oldest man he seemed that ever wore grey hairs. nnIX nnAs a huge stone is sometimes seen to lie nCouched on the bald top of an eminence; nWonder to all who do the same espy, nBy what means it could thither come, and whence; nSo that it seems a thing endued with sense: nLike a sea-beast crawled forth, that on a shelf nOf rock or sand reposeth, there to sun itself; nnX nnSuch seemed this Man, not all alive nor dead, nNor all asleep--in his extreme old age: nHis body was bent double, feet and head nComing together in life's pilgrimage; nAs if some dire constraint of pain, or rage nOf sickness felt by him in times long past, nA more than human weight upon his frame had cast. nnXI nnHimself he propped, limbs, body, and pale face, nUpon a long grey staff of shaven wood: nAnd, still as I drew near with gentle pace, nUpon the margin of that moorish flood nMotionless as a cloud the old Man stood, nThat heareth not the loud winds when they call nAnd moveth all together, if it move at all. nnXII nnAt length, himself unsettling, he the pond nStirred with his staff, and fixedly did look nUpon the muddy water, which he conned, nAs if he had been reading in a book: nAnd now a stranger's privilege I took; nAnd, drawing to his side, to him did say, n"This morning gives us promise of a glorious day." nnXIII nnA gentle answer did the old Man make, nIn courteous speech which forth he slowly drew: nAnd him with further words I thus bespake, n"What occupation do you there pursue? nThis is a lonesome place for one like you." nEre he replied, a flash of mild surprise nBroke from the sable orbs of his yet-vivid eyes, nnXIV nnHis words came feebly, from a feeble chest, nBut each in solemn order followed each, nWith something of a lofty utterance drest-- nChoice word and measured phrase, above the reach nOf ordinary men; a stately speech; nSuch as grave Livers do in Scotland use, nReligious men, who give to God and man their dues. nnXV nnHe told, that to these waters he had come nTo gather leeches, being old and poor: nEmployment hazardous and wearisome! nAnd he had many hardships to endure: nFrom pond to pond he roamed, from moor to moor; nHousing, with God's good help, by choice or chance, nAnd in this way he gained an honest maintenance. nnXVI nnThe old Man still stood talking by my side; nBut now his voice to me was like a stream nScarce heard; nor word from word could I divide; nAnd the whole body of the Man did seem nLike one whom I had met with in a dream; nOr like a man from some far region sent, nTo give me human strength, by apt admonishment. nnXVII nnMy former thoughts returned: the fear that kills; nAnd hope that is unwilling to be fed; nCold, pain, and labour, and all fleshly ills; nAnd mighty Poets in their misery dead. n--Perplexed, and longing to be comforted, nMy question eagerly did I renew, n"How is it that you live, and what is it you do?" nnXVIII nnHe with a smile did then his words repeat; nAnd said, that, gathering leeches, far and wide nHe travelled; stirring thus about his feet nThe waters of the pools where they abide. n"Once I could meet with them on every side; nBut they have dwindled long by slow decay; nYet still I persevere, and find them where I may." nnXIX nnWhile he was talking thus, the lonely place, nThe old Man's shape, and speech--all troubled me: nIn my mind's eye I seemed to see him pace nAbout the weary moors continually, nWandering about alone and silently. nWhile I these thoughts within myself pursued, nHe, having made a pause, the same discourse renewed. nnXX nnAnd soon with this he other matter blended, nCheerfully uttered, with demeanour kind, nBut stately in the main; and when he ended, nI could have laughed myself to scorn to find nIn that decrepit Man so firm a mind. n"God," said I, "be my help and stay secure; nI'll think of the Leech-gatherer on the lonely moor!"

 


London, 1802

 

rn Milton! thou should'st be living at this hour:nEngland hath need of thee: she is a fennOf stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen,nFireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,nHave forfeited their ancient English dowernOf inward happiness. We are selfish men;nOh! raise us up, return to us again;nAnd give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.nThy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart:nThou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea:nPure as the naked heavens, majestic, free,nSo didst thou travel on life's common way,nIn cheerful godliness; and yet thy heartnThe lowliest duties on herself did lay.

 


Lines Written In Early Spring

 

rn I heard a thousand blended notes,nWhile in a grove I sate reclined,nIn that sweet mood when pleasant thoughtsnBring sad thoughts to the mind.nnTo her fair works did Nature linknThe human soul that through me ran;nAnd much it grieved my heart to thinknWhat man has made of man.nnThrough primrose tufts, in that green bower,nThe periwinkle trailed its wreaths;nAnd 'tis my faith that every flowernEnjoys the air it breathes.nnThe birds around me hopped and played,nTheir thoughts I cannot measure:--nBut the least motion which they madenIt seemed a thrill of pleasure.nnThe budding twigs spread out their fan,nTo catch the breezy air;nAnd I must think, do all I can,nThat there was pleasure there.nnIf this belief from heaven be sent,nIf such be Nature's holy plan,nHave I not reason to lamentnWhat man has made of man?

 


Composed Upon Westminster Bridge

 

rn Earth has not anything to show more fair:nDull would he be of soul who could pass bynA sight so touching in its majesty:nThis City now doth like a garment wearnThe beauty of the morning; silent , bare,nShips, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lienOpen unto the fields, and to the sky,nAll bright and glittering in the smokeless air.nNever did the sun more beautifully steepnIn his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill;nNe'er saw I, never felt a calm so deep!nThe river glideth at his own sweet will:nDear God! the very houses seem asleep;nAnd all that mighty heart is lying still!

 


Voltaire Johnson

 

rn Why did you bruise me with your rough placesnIf you did not want me to tell you about them?nAnd stifle me with your stupidities,nIf you did not want me to expose them?nAnd nail me with the nails of cruelty,nIf you did not want me to pluck the nails forthnAnd fling them in your faces?nAnd starve me because I refused to obey you,nIf you did not want me to undermine your tyranny?nI might have been as soul serenenAs William Wordsworth except for you!nBut what a coward you are, Spoon River,nWhen you drove me to stand in a magic circlenBy the sword of Truth described!nAnd then to whine and curse your burns,nAnd curse my power who stood and laughednAmid ironical lightning!
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thanks. Is daffodils a poem of william wordsworth

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