Young England--What Is Then Become Of Old - Poem by William Wordsworth

YOUNG ENGLAND--what is then become of Old
Of dear Old England? Think they she is dead,
Dead to the very name? Presumption fed
On empty air! That name will keep its hold
In the true filial bosom's inmost fold

Yew-Trees - Poem by William Wordsworth

There is a Yew-tree, pride of Lorton Vale,
Which to this day stands single, in the midst
Of its own darkness, as it stood of yore:
Not loathe to furnish weapons for the Bands
Of Umfraville or Percy ere they marched

Yes, It Was The Mountain Echo - Poem by William Wordsworth

YES, it was the mountain Echo,
Solitary, clear, profound,
Answering to the shouting Cuckoo,
Giving to her sound for sound!

Yes! Thou Art Fair, Yet Be Not Moved - Poem by William Wordsworth

YES! thou art fair, yet be not moved
To scorn the declaration,
That sometimes I in thee have loved
My fancy's own creation.

Yarrow Visited - Poem by William Wordsworth

September, 1814

And is this -Yarrow? -This the stream
Of which my fancy cherished
So faithfully, a waking dream,
An image that hath perished?
O that some minstrel's harp were near

Yarrow Unvisited - Poem by William Wordsworth

From Stirling castle we had seen 
The mazy Forth unravelled;
Had trod the banks of Clyde, and Tay,
And with the Tweed had travelled;
And when we came to Clovenford,
Then said my "winsome Marrow ,"

Yarrow Revisited - Poem by William Wordsworth

The gallant Youth, who may have gained,
Or seeks, a "winsome Marrow,"
Was but an Infant in the lap
When first I looked on Yarrow;
Once more, by Newark's Castle-gate

Written With A Pencil Upon A Stone In The Wall Of The House, On The Island At Grasmere - Poem by William Wordsworth

Rude is this Edifice, and Thou hast seen 
Buildings, albeit rude, that have maintained 
Proportions more harmonious, and approached 
To closer fellowship with ideal grace. 
But take it in good part:--alas! the poor 

Written Upon A Blank Leaf In - Poem by William Wordsworth

WHILE flowing rivers yield a blameless sport,
Shall live the name of Walton: Sage benign!
Whose pen, the mysteries of the rod and line
Unfolding, did not fruitlessly exhort
To reverend watching of each still report
That Nature utters from her rural shrine.

Written In Very Early Youth - Poem by William Wordsworth

CALM is all nature as a resting wheel.
The kine are couched upon the dewy grass;
The horse alone, seen dimly as I pass,
Is cropping audibly his later meal:

Written In March - Poem by William Wordsworth

The cock is crowing, 
The stream is flowing, 
The small birds twitter, 
The lake doth glitter 
The green field sleeps in the sun; 
The oldest and youngest 

Written In Germany, On One Of The Coldest Days Of The Century - Poem by William Wordsworth

A plague on your languages, German and Norse! 
Let me have the song of the kettle; 
And the tongs and the poker, instead of that horse 
That gallops away with such fury and force 
On this dreary dull plate of black metal. 

Written In Early Spring - Poem by William Wordsworth

I heard a thousand blended notes
While in a grove I sat reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

Written In A Blank Leaf Of Macpherson's Ossian - Poem by William Wordsworth

OFT have I caught, upon a fitful breeze,
Fragments of far-off melodies,
With ear not coveting the whole,
A part so charmed the pensive soul.
While a dark storm before my sight
Was yielding, on a mountain height
Loose vapours have I watched, that won

With Ships The Sea Was Sprinkled Far And Nigh - Poem by William Wordsworth

With ships the sea was sprinkled far and nigh, 
Like stars in heaven, and joyously it showed; 
Some lying fast at anchor in the road, 
Some veering up and down, one knew not why. 
A goodly vessel did I then espy 
Come like a giant from a haven broad; 

With Ships The Sea Was Sprinkled - Poem by William Wordsworth

WITH ships the sea was sprinkled far and nigh, 
Like stars in heaven, and joyously it showed; 
Some lying fast at anchor in the road, 
Some veering up and down, one knew not why. 
A goodly vessel did I then espy 

With How Sad Steps, O Moon, Thou Climb'st The Sky - Poem by William Wordsworth

With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the sky,
"How silently, and with how wan a face!"
Where art thou? Thou so often seen on high
Running among the clouds a Wood-nymph's race!
Unhappy Nuns, whose common breath's a sigh

Who Fancied What A Pretty Sight - Poem by William Wordsworth

WHO fancied what a pretty sight
This Rock would be if edged around
With living snow-drops? circlet bright!
How glorious to this orchard-ground!
Who loved the little Rock, and set

Where Lies The Land To Which Yon Ship Must Go? - Poem by William Wordsworth

WHERE lies the Land to which yon Ship must go?
Fresh as a lark mounting at break of day,
Festively she puts forth in trim array;
Is she for tropic suns, or polar snow?
What boots the inquiry?--Neither friend nor foe
She cares for; let her travel where she may,

Where Lies The Land To Which Yon Ship Must Go? - Poem by William Wordsworth

WHERE lies the Land to which yon Ship must go?
Fresh as a lark mounting at break of day,
Festively she puts forth in trim array;
Is she for tropic suns, or polar snow?
What boots the inquiry?--Neither friend nor foe
She cares for; let her travel where she may,