Address to a Child (by William Wordsworth)

Wordsworth (in an 1873 reproduction of an 1839 watercolor by Margaret Gillies)

Address to a Child
by William Wordsworth

What way does the Wind come? What way does he go?
He rides over the water, and over the snow,
Through wood, and through vale; and, o’er rocky height,
Which the goat cannot climb, takes his sounding flight;
He tosses about in every bare tree,
As, if you look up, you plainly may see;
But how he will come, and whither he goes,
There’s never a scholar in England knows.

He will suddenly stop in a cunning nook,
And ring a sharp ‘larum;–but, if you should look,
There’s nothing to see but a cushion of snow,
Round as a pillow, and whiter than milk,
And softer than if it were covered with silk.
Sometimes he’ll hide in the cave of a rock,
Then whistle as shrill as the buzzard cock;
–Yet seek him,–and what shall you find in the place?
Nothing but silence and empty space;
Save, in a corner, a heap of dry leaves,
That he’s left, for a bed, to beggars or thieves!
As soon as ’tis daylight to-morrow, with me 
You shall go to the orchard, and then you will see
That he has been there, and made a great rout,
And cracked the branches, and strewn them about;
Heaven grant that he spare but that one upright twig
That looked up at the sky so proud and big
All last summer, as well you know,
Studded with apples, a beautiful show!

Hark! over the roof he makes a pause,
And growls as if he would fix his claws
Right in the slates, and with a huge rattle
Drive them down, like men in a battle:
–But let him range round; he does us no harm,
We build up the fire, we’re snug and warm;
Untouched by his breath see the candle shines bright,
And burns with a clear and steady light;
Books have we to read,–but that half-stifled knell,
Alas! ’tis the sound of the eight o’clock bell.
–Come now we’ll to bed! and when we are there
He may work his own will, and what shall we care?
He may knock at the door,–we’ll not let him in; 
May drive at the windows,–we’ll laugh at his din;
Let him seek his own home wherever it be;
Here’s a cozie warm house for Edward and me.



*

Characteristics of a Child Three Years Old (by William Wordsworth)

Wordsworth (in an 1873 reproduction of an 1839 watercolor by Margaret Gillies)

Characteristics of a Child Three Years Old
by William Wordsworth
[composed in 1811, published in 1815]

Loving she is, and tractable, though wild;
And Innocence hath privilege in her
To dignify arch looks and laughing eyes;
And feats of cunning; and the pretty round
Of trespasses, affected to provoke
Mock-chastisement and partnership in play.
And, as a faggot sparkles on the hearth,
Not less if unattended and alone
Than when both young and old sit gathered round
And take delight in its activity;
Even so this happy Creature of herself
Is all-sufficient, solitude to her
Is blithe society, who fills the air
With gladness and involuntary songs.
Light are her sallies as the tripping fawn’s
Forth-startled from the fern where she lay couched;
Unthought-of, unexpected, as the stir
Of the soft breeze ruffling the meadow-flowers,
Or from before it chasing wantonly
The many-coloured images imprest
Upon the bosom of a placid lake.



*

Foresight (by William Wordsworth)

Wordsworth (in an 1873 reproduction of an 1839 watercolor by Margaret Gillies)

Foresight
by William Wordsworth
[composed in 28 April 1802, published in 1807]

That is work of waste and ruin–
Do as Charles and I are doing!
Strawberry-blossoms, one and all,
We must spare them–here are many:
Look at it–the flower is small,
Small and low, though fair as any:
Do not touch it! summers two
I am older, Anne, than you.

Pull the Primrose, Sister Anne!
Pull as many as you can.
–Here are daisies, take your fill;
Pansies, and the cuckoo-flower:
Of the lofty daffodil
Make your bed, or make your bower;
Fill your lap, and fill your bosom;
Only spare the strawberry-blossom!

Primroses, the Spring may love them–
Summer knows but little of them:
Violets, do what they will, 
Withered on the ground must lie;
Daisies leave no fruit behind
When the pretty flowerets die;
Pluck them, and another year
As many will be blowing here.

God has given a kindlier power
To the favoured strawberry-flower.
Hither soon as spring is fled
You and Charles and I will walk;
Lurking berries, ripe and red,
Then will hang on every stalk,
Each within its leafy bower;
And for that promise spare the flower!



* * * * *

    

The Sparrow’s Nest (by William Wordsworth)

Wordsworth (in an 1873 reproduction of an 1839 watercolor by Margaret Gillies)

The Sparrow’s Nest
by William Wordsworth
[composed in 1801, published in 1807]

Behold, within the leafy shade,
Those bright blue eggs together laid!
On me the chance-discovered sight 
Gleamed like a vision of delight.
I started–seeming to espy
The home and sheltered bed,
The Sparrow’s dwelling, which, hard by
My Father’s house, in wet or dry,
My Sister Emmeline and I
     Together visited.

She looked at it and seemed to fear it; 
Dreading, tho’ wishing, to be near it:
Such heart was in her, being then
A little Prattler among men.
The Blessing of my later years
Was with me when a boy:
She gave me eyes, she gave me ears;
And humble care, and delicate fears;
A heart, the fountain of sweet tears;
     And love, and thought, and joy.




* * * * *

    

To a Butterfly (by William Wordsworth)

Wordsworth (in an 1873 reproduction of an 1839 watercolor by Margaret Gillies)

To a Butterfly
by William Wordsworth
[composed 14 March 1802, published in 1807]

Stay near me–do not take thy flight!
A little longer stay in sight!
Much converse do I find in thee,
Historian of my infancy!
Float near me; do not yet depart!
Dead times revive in thee:
Thou bring’st, gay creature as thou art!
A solemn image to my heart,
My father’s family!

Oh! pleasant, pleasant were the days,
The time, when, in our childish plays,
My sister Emmeline and I
Together chased the butterfly!
A very hunter did I rush
Upon the prey;–with leaps and springs
I followed on from brake to bush;
But she, God love her, feared to brush
The dust from off its wings.




* * * * *

    

My Heart Leaps Up When I Behold (by William Wordsworth)

Wordsworth (in an 1873 reproduction of an 1839 watercolor by Margaret Gillies)

My Heart Leaps Up When I Behold
by William Wordsworth
[composed 26 March 1802, published in 1807]

My heart leaps up when I behold
     A 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 be
Bound each to each by natural piety.




* * * * *


    

We Are Seven (by William Wordsworth)

Wordsworth (in an 1873 reproduction of an 1839 watercolor by Margaret Gillies)

We Are Seven
by William Wordsworth
from Lyrical Ballads, 1798

—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!”
‘Twas throwing words away; for still
The little Maid would have her will,
And said, “Nay, we are seven!”

* * * * *

    

The Tables Turned (by William Wordsworth)

Wordsworth (in an 1873 reproduction of an 1839 watercolor by Margaret Gillies)

The Tables Turned
An Evening Scene on the Same Subject

Up! up! my Friend, and quit your books;
Or surely you’ll grow double:
Up! up! my Friend, and clear your looks;
Why all this toil and trouble?

The sun above the mountain’s head,
A freshening lustre mellow
Through all the long green fields has spread,
His first sweet evening yellow.

Books! ’tis a dull and endless strife:
Come, hear the woodland linnet,
How sweet his music! on my life,
There’s more of wisdom in it.

And hark! how blithe the throstle sings!
He, too, is no mean preacher:
Come forth into the light of things,
Let Nature be your Teacher.

She has a world of ready wealth,
Our minds and hearts to bless–
Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health,
Truth breathed by cheerfulness.

One impulse from a vernal wood
May teach you more of man,
Of moral evil and of good,
Than all the sages can.

Sweet is the lore which Nature brings;
Our meddling intellect
Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things:–
We murder to dissect.

Enough of Science and of Art;
Close up those barren leaves;
Come forth, and bring with you a heart
That watches and receives.

        — by William Wordsworth, from Lyrical Ballads (1798)

* * * * *

    

Written in March (by William Wordsworth)

Wordsworth (in an 1873 reproduction of an 1839 watercolor by Margaret Gillies)

Written in March
While resting in the Bridge at the Foot of Brother’s Water

  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

  Are at work with the strongest;

  The cattle are grazing,

  Their heads never raising;

There are forty feeding like one!

  Like an army defeated

  The snow hath retreated,

  And now doth fare ill

  On the top of the bare hill;

The plowboy is whooping–anon–anon:

  There’s joy in the mountains;

  There’s life in the fountains;

  Small clouds are sailing,

  Blue sky prevailing;

The rain is over and gone!


        — by William Wordsworth, 1807



* * * * *


    

Expostulation and Reply (by William Wordsworth)

Wordsworth (in an 1873 reproduction of an 1839 watercolor by Margaret Gillies)

Expostulation and Reply
by William Wordsworth, 1798

“Why, William, on that old grey stone,
Thus for the length of half a day,
Why, William, sit you thus alone,
And dream your time away?

“Where are your books?–that light bequeathed
To Beings else forlorn and blind!
Up! up! and drink the spirit breathed
From dead men to their kind.

“You look round on your Mother Earth,
As if she for no purpose bore you;
As if you were her first-born birth,
And none had lived before you!”

One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake,
When life was sweet, I knew not why,
To me my good friend Matthew spake,
And thus I made reply:

“The eye–it cannot choose but see;
We cannot bid the ear be still;
Our bodies feel, where’er they be,
Against or with our will.

“Nor less I deem that there are Powers
Which of themselves our minds impress;
That we can feed this mind of ours
In a wise passiveness.

“Think you, ‘mid all this mighty sum
Of things for ever speaking,
That nothing of itself will come,
But we must still be seeking?

“–Then ask not wherefore, here, alone,
Conversing as I may,
I sit upon this old grey stone,
And dream my time away.”



* * * * *