Poems In Two Volumes Reprinted From The Original Edition Of 1807 Volume 2

Author : William Wordsworth
Publisher : Theclassics.Us
ISBN 13 : 9781230444789
Total Pages : 30 pages
Book Rating : 4.4/5 (447 download)

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Download or read book Poems; in Two Volumes, Reprinted from the Original Edition of 1807 written by William Wordsworth and published by Theclassics.Us. This book was released on 2013-09 with total page 30 pages. Available in PDF, EPUB and Kindle. Book excerpt: This historic book may have numerous typos and missing text. Purchasers can usually download a free scanned copy of the original book (without typos) from the publisher. Not indexed. Not illustrated. 1807 edition. Excerpt: ...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 four year's 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, Shap'd 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 tongue To dialogues of business, love, or strife; But it will not be long Ere this be thrown aside, And with new joy and pride, The little Actor cons another part, Filling from time to time his " humourous stage " With all the Persons, down to palsied Age, That Life brings with her in her Equipage; As if his whole vocation Were endless imitation. Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie Thy Soul's immensity; Thou best Philosopher, who yet dost keep Thy heritage, thon 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 do rest, Which we are toiling all our lives to find; Thou, over whom thy Immortality mS Broods like the Day, a Master o'er a Slave, A Presence which is not to be put by; To whom the grave Is but a lonely bed without the sense or sight Of day or the warm light, A place of thought where we in waiting lie; Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might Of nntam'd pleasures, on thy Being's height, Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke The Years to bring the inevitable yoke, Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife? Full soon thy Soul shall have her...