Wordsworth

THIS IS A BORZOI BOOK

PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A. KNOPF

This selection by Peter Washington first published in
Everyman’s Library, 1995
Copyright © 1995 by Everyman’s Library
Tenth printing (US)

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto. Distributed by Random House, Inc., New York. Published in the United Kingdom by Everyman’s Library, Northburgh House, 10 Northburgh Street, London EC1V oAT. Distributed by Random House (UK) Ltd.

US website:
www.randomhouse.com/everymans

eBook ISBN: 978-0-375-71263-0
ISBN 0-679-44369-X (US)
1-85715-718-4 (UK)

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

v3.1

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.

I wandered lonely as a cloud

That 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 shine

And twinkle on the milky way,

They stretched in never-ending line

Along the margin of a bay:

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:

A poet could not but be gay,

In such a jocund company:

I gazed – and gazed – but little thought

What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the daffodils.

She was a Phantom of delight

When first she gleamed upon my sight;

A lovely Apparition, sent

To be a moment’s ornament;

Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair;

Like Twilight’s, too, her dusky hair;

But all things else about her drawn

From May-time and the cheerful Dawn;

A dancing Shape, an Image gay,

To haunt, to startle, and way-lay.

I saw her upon nearer view,

A Spirit, yet a Woman too!

Her household motions light and free,

And steps of virgin-liberty;

A countenance in which did meet

Sweet records, promises as sweet;

A Creature not too bright or good

For human nature’s daily food;

For transient sorrows, simple wiles,

Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.

And now I see with eye serene

The very pulse of the machine;

A Being breathing thoughtful breath,

A Traveller between life and death;

The reason firm, the temperate will,

Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;

A perfect Woman, nobly planned,

To warn, to comfort, and command;

And yet a Spirit still, and bright

With something of angelic light.

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, though 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 cares, and delicate fears;

A heart, the fountain of sweet tears;

    And love, and thought, and joy.

O blithe New-comer! I have heard,

I hear thee and rejoice.

O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird,

Or but a wandering Voice?

While I am lying on the grass

Thy twofold shout I hear,

From hill to hill it seems to pass,

At once far off, and near.

Though babbling only to the Vale,

Of sunshine and of flowers,

Thou bringest unto me a tale

Of visionary hours.

Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring!

Even yet thou art to me

No bird, but an invisible thing,

A voice, a mystery;

The same whom in my schoolboy days

I listened to; that Cry

Which made me look a thousand ways

In bush, and tree, and sky.

To seek thee did I often rove

Through woods and on the green;

And thou wert still a hope, a love;

Still longed for, never seen.

And I can listen to thee yet;

Can lie upon the plain

And listen, till I do beget

That golden time again.

O blessèd Bird! the earth we pace

Again appears to be

An unsubstantial, faery place;

That is fit home for Thee!

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 chaced 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.

Among all lovely things my Love had been;

Had noted well the stars, all flowers that grew

About her home; but she had never seen

A Glow-worm, never one, and this I knew.

While riding near her home one stormy night

A single Glow-worm did I chance to espy;

I gave a fervent welcome to the sight,

And from my Horse I leapt; great joy had I.