Selection from the Sonnets of William Wordsworth-William Wordsworth

0:00A selection from the sonnets of William Wordsworth, read for LibriVox.org by Bruce Cachok. Nuns fret not at their Convince Narrow Room, by William Wordsworth. Nuns fret not at their Convince Narrow Room, and hermets are contented with their cells, and students with their pensive citadels. Mades at the wheel, the weaver at his loom. Sit, blithe and happy. Bees that soar for bloom, high as the highest peak of furnace-fells, will murmur by the hour in fox-cloth bells. In truth the prison unto which we doom ourselves, no prison is, and hence for me, in sundry moods was pastime to be bound within the sonnets, scanty plot of ground. Please, if some souls, for such their needs must be, who have felt the weight of too much

1:03liberty, should find brief sodas there, as I have found. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. For not the sonnet, critic you have frowned, by William Wordsworth, redforelibrivox.org. Scorn not the sonnet, critic you have frowned, mindless of its just honours. With this key, Shakespeare unlocked his heart. The melody of this small loot gave ease to Petrox wound. A thousand times this pipe did tassosound. With it, camoens, soothed and exiles grief. The sonnet glittered a gay mortal leaf amid the cypress, with which Dante crowned his visionary brow.

2:05A glow-warmed lamp, a cheered mild spencer, called from fairyland to struggle through dark ways, and when a damp fell round the path of Milton, in his hand the thing became a trumpet when sea-blue soul animating strains. Alas, to few. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Even in very early youth, by William Wordsworth, redforelibrivox.org. Cah is all nature, as a resting wheel, the kine are couched upon the dewey grass. The horse alone, seen dimly as I pass, is cropping audibly, his later meal. Dark is the ground.

3:06A slumber seems to steal or veil and mountain, and the starless sky. Now in this blank of things, a harmony, home-felt, and home-created, comes to heal the grief, for which the senses still supply fresh food. For only then, when memory is hushed, am I at rest? My friends restrain those busy cares that would alay my pain. Oh, leave me to myself, nor let me feel the officious touch, that makes me droop again. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. I watch and long have watched with calm regret. By William Wordsworth, redforelibrivox.org.

4:10I watch and long have watched with calm regret, young slowly sinking star. Immortal sire, so might he seem, of all the glittering choir. Blue ether still surrounds him, yet, and yet. But now the horizons rocky parapet is reached, where forfeiting his bright attire he burns, transmuted to a dusky fire, then pays submissively the appointed debt to the flying moments, and is seen no more. As in gods we struggle with our fate, while health, power, glory from their height decline, depressed and then extinguished, and our state in this how different lost star from thine, that no tomorrow shall our beams restore.

5:15End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. How clear, how keen, how marvelously bright, by William Wordsworth, redforelibrivox.org. How clear, how keen, how marvelously bright, the effluence from young distant mountains head, which strewn with snow, smooth as a sky can shed, shines like another sun, on mortal sight up risen, as if to check approaching night, and all her twinkling stars, who now would tread, if so he might, on mountains glittering head. Terrestrial, but a surface by the flight of sad mortalities earth-sullying wing, unswept, unstained, nor shall the aerial powers dissolve that beauty, destined to endure,

6:22white radiant spotless, exquisitely pure, through all vicissitudes, till genial spring has filled the laughing veils with welcome flowers. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. While not a leaf seems faded, while the fields, by William Wordsworth, redforelibrivox.org. While not a leaf seems faded, while the fields with ripening harvest prodigally fair, in brightest sunshine bask. This nipping air, sent from some distant climb where winter wields his icy cemeter, a four-taste yields of bitter change, and bids the flowers beware, and whispers to the silent

7:22birds, prepare against the threatening foe your trustiest shields. For me, who under kindly are laws belong to nature's tuneful choir, this rustling dry through leaves yet green, and young crystalline sky, announce a season potent to renew, mid-frost and snow, the instinctive joys of song, and nobler cares, then listless summer in you. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. There is a pleasure in poetic pains, by William Wordsworth, redforelibrivox.org. There is a pleasure in poetic pains, which only poets, no, to us rightly said, whom could

8:24the musers also lure to tread their smoothest paths, to wear their lightest chains. When happiest fancy has inspired the strains, how oft the malice of one luckless word, pursues the enthusiast to the social board, haunts him belated on the silent plains. Let he repines not, if his thoughts stand clear, at last of hindrance and obscurity, fresh as the star that crowns the brow of mourn. Bright, speckless, as a softly-molded tear, the moment it has left the virgin's eye, or raindrop lingering, on the pointed thorn. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Oxford, May 30, 1820, by William Wordsworth, redforelibrivox.org.

9:34Ye sacred nurseries of blooming youth, in whose collegiate shelter England's flowers expand, enjoying through their vernal hours the air of liberty, the light of truth. Much have ye suffered from times knowing tooth, yet o ye spires of Oxford, domes and towers, gardens and groves, your presence overpowers the soberness of reason, till insooth transformed and rushing on a bold exchange. I slight my own beloved cam, to range where silver, isus, leads my stripling feet. Pace the long avenue, or glide adown the stream like windings of that glorious street, an eager novice robed in fluttering gown.

10:34End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. A parsinage in Oxfordshire, by William Wordsworth, redforelibrivox.org. Where holy ground begins, unhalowed ends, is marked by no distinguishable line, the turf unites, the pathways intertwine, and where soware the stealing footstep tens, garden, and that domain where kindred friends and neighbors rest together. Here confound their several features, mingled like the sound of many waters, or as evening blends with shady night. Left airs from shrub and flower, waft fragrant greetings to each silent grave, and while those lofty poplars gently wave their tops, between them comes and goes a sky bright as

11:42the glimpses of eternity, two sains accorded in their mortal hour. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Hail twilight, sovereign of one peaceful hour, by William Wordsworth, redforelibrivox.org. Hail twilight, sovereign of one peaceful hour, not dull art thou was undescerning night, but studious only to remove from sight days mutable distinctions, ancient power. Last did the waters gleam, the mountains lower to the rude Britain, when in Wolfskin vest here roving wild he laid him down to rest on the bare rock, or through a leafy bowler

12:43looked air his eyes were closed, by him was seen the self-same vision which we now behold at thy meek bidding, shadowy power, brought forth these mighty barriers and the gulf between, the flood, the stars, a spectacle as old as the beginning of the heavens and earth. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Mark the consentered hazels that enclose, by William Wordsworth, redforelibrivox.org. Mark the consentered hazels that enclose young old gray stone, protected from the ray of noon-tide suns, and even the beams that play and glance, while wantonly the rough wind blows,

13:48are seldom free to touch the moss that grows upon that roof, amid embowling gloom, the very image-framing of a tomb, in which some ancient chieftain finds repose among the lonely mountains. Live ye trees, and thou gray stone, the pence of likeness keep of a dark chamber, where the mighty sleep, for more than fancy to the influence bends, when solitary nature condesense, to mimic times for lorn humanities. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Mark the consentered hazels that enclose young old gray stone, protected from the ray of

14:52noon-tide suns, and the pence of likeness keep of a dark chamber, where the mighty sleep, come far, forgive the wonderings of my thought, nor art thou wronged sweet may, when I compare thy present birthmorn with thy last, so fair, so rich to me, in favors, for my lot then was, within the famed a gerian grot, to sit and muse, fanned by its dewy air, mingling with thy soft breath. That morning too, warblers I heard, their joy unbozzoming amid the sunny shadowy Colosseum, heard them unchecked by ought of satanning hue, for victories there one by flower crown spring, chant in full choir, their innocent to-deam.

15:56End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Though the bold wings of poetry affect, by William Wordsworth, red for librivox.org. Though the bold wings of poetry affect the clouds, and wheel around the mountain tops rejoicing, from her loftiest height she drops well pleased to skim the plain, with wild flowers decked, or muse in Sodom Grove, whose shades protect the lingering dew, their steels along, or stops watching the least small bird that round her hops, or creeping worm, with sensitive respect. Her functions are they therefore less divine, her thoughts less deep, or void of grave intent

16:58her simplest fancies. Should that fear be thine, aspiring votary, air thy hand present one offering, kneel before her modest shrine, with brow in penitential sorrow bent? End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Peelion and Asa, flourish side by side. By William Wordsworth. Red for librivox.org. Peelion and Asa, flourish side by side. Together any mortal books enrolled. His ancient dour Olympus hath not sold. And that inspiring hill which did divide into two ample horns his forehead wide, shines with poetic radiance as of old.

18:01While not an English mountain we behold, by the celestial muses glorified. That round our seagirt sure they rise in crowds. What was the great Parnassus self to thee, Mount Skidah? In his natural sovereignty our British hill is nobler far. He shrouds his double front among at Atlantic clouds, and pours forth streams more sweet than castly. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. To sleep by William Wordsworth. Red for librivox.org. A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by, one after one. The sound of rain and bees murmuring.

19:02The fall of rivers winds and seas. Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky. I have thought of all by turns, and yet do lie sleepless. And soon the small birds' melodies must hear. First utter it from my orchard trees. And the first cookers melancholy cry. Even thus last night and two nights more I lay, and could not win thee sleep by any stealth. So do not let me wear tonight away. Without thee what is all the morning's wealth? Come blessed barrier between day and day. Your mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain.

20:09Fond words have often been spoken to the sleep by William Wordsworth. Red for librivox.org. End words have often been spoken to the sleep, and thou hast had thy store of tenderest names. The very sweetest fancy calls or frames, when thankfulness of heart is strong and deep. Dear bosom child, we call thee, that dust steep in rich reward, all suffering. Bomb that tames all anguish. Saint that evil thoughts and aims take us to way, and into souls dust creep, like to a breeze from heaven. Shall I alone, I surely not a man ungently made, call thee worst tyrant by which flesh is crossed, perverse self-willed, to own and to disown, mere slave of them,

21:12who never for thee prayed, still lust to come, where thou art wanted most. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The River Eden, Comberland by William Wordsworth. Red for librivox.org Eden, till now thy beauty had I viewed by glimpses only, and confess with shame that verse of mine what air its varying mood, repeats but once the sound of thy sweet name. Yet fetched from paradise that honor came rightfully born, for nature gives thee flowers that have no rivals among British bowers, and thy bold rocks are worthy of their fame. Measuring thy coarse fair stream, at length I pay to my life's neighbor, dues of neighborhood,

22:19but I have traced thee on thy winding way with pleasure sometimes by this thought restrained. For things far off we toil, while many a good not sought, because too near, is never gained. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Surprised by joy, impatient as the wind thy William Wordsworth. Red for librivox.org Surprised by joy, impatient as the wind I turned to share the transport. Oh, with whom but thee, deep buried in the silent tomb, that spot which no vicissitude can find. Love, faithful love, recall thee to my mind.

23:22But how could I forget thee? Through what power, even for the least division of an hour, have I been so big-guiled as to be blind to my most grievous loss? That thought's return was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore. Save one, one only, when I stood for lorn, knowing my heart's best treasure was no more. That neither present time nor years on born could to my sight that heavenly face restore. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Her only pilot, the soft breeze, the boat, by William Wordsworth. Red for librivox.org Her only pilot, the soft breeze, the boat

24:25lingers, but fancy is well satisfied. With keen-eyed hope, with memory at her side, and the glad muse at liberty to note, all that to each is precious as we float gently along. Regardless who shall chide, if the heaven smile and leave us free to glide, happy associates, breathing air remote from trivial cares. And fancy, and the muse, why have I crowded this small bark with you and others of your kind, ideal crew? While here sits one whose brightness owes its use to flesh and blood, no goddess from above, no fleeting spirit, but my own true love. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain.

25:29With ships the sea was sprinkled far and nigh, by William Wordsworth. Red for librivox.org. With ships the sea was sprinkled far and nigh, like stars in heaven, and joyously it showed, and lying fast at anchor in the road, some veering up and down, one you not why. A goodly vessel did I then aspire, come like a giant from a haven broad, and lustily along the bay she strode, her tackling rich, and of a peril high. This ship was not to me, nor I to her, yet I pursued her with a lover's look. This ship to all the rest did I prefer. When will she turn and with her, she will broke no tearing, where she comes the winds must stir, on when she, and do north her journey took.

26:36End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Where lies the land, to which yon ship must go, by William Wordsworth. Red for librivox.org. 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, his she for tropic suns, or polar snow. That boots the inquiry, neither friend nor foe she cares for, let her travel where she may, she finds familiar names, a beaten way ever before her, and a wind to blow. Yet still I ask, what haven is her mark? And almost as it was when ships were rare, from time to time like pilgrims, here and

27:41there crossing the waters, doubt, and something dark of the old sea, some reverential fear is with me, at thy fair well, joyous bark. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Soul listener, dudden, to the breeze that played, by William Wordsworth. Red for librivox.org. Soul listener, dudden, to the breeze that played with thy clear voice, I caught the fitful sound, wafted or solid moss and craggy mound, unfruitful solitudes that seemed to upgrade the sun in heaven. But now to form a shade for the green-olders have together wound their foliage, ashes flung

28:42their arms around, and birch trees risen in silver-colonade, and thou hast also tempted here to rise mid-sheltering pines, this cottage, rude and gray, whose ruddy children by the mother's eyes carelessly watched, sport through the summer day, thy pleased associates, light as endless may on infant bosoms lonely nature lies. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Red aspect bore the man who roved or fled, by William Wordsworth. Red for librivox.org. What aspect bore the man who roved or fled, first of his tribe to this dark del, who first in this pollucid current slaked his thirst, what hopes came with him, what designs were

29:49spread along his path, his unprotected bed, what dreams encompassed, was the intruder nursed in hideous usages and rights accursed, that thinned the living and disturbed the dead. No voice replies, both air and earth are mute, and thou, blue streamlet, murmuring ye'll rest no more than a soft record, that whatever fruit of ignorance thou mightst witness here to for, thy function was to heal and to restore, to soothe and cleanse, not madden and pollute. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Hail to the fields with dwelling sprinkled ore, by William Wordsworth, red for librivox.org.

30:53Hail to the fields with dwelling sprinkled ore, and one small hamlet under a green hill clustering with barn and buyer, and sprouting mill, a glance suffices should we wish for more, gay June would scorn us, but when bleak winds roar, through the stiff lands like shoots of palloured ash, dreads well of sound, loud as the gusts that lash the matted forests of Ontario shore, by wasteful steel unsmitten, then would I turn into port, and reckless of the gale, reckless of angry dudden sweeping by, while the warm hearth exalts the mantling ale, laugh with the generous household heartily at all the merry pranks of donor-dale.

31:56End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Stepping Stones, by William Wordsworth, red for librivox.org. The struggling rail insensibly is grown into a brook of loud and stately march, crossed ever and anon by plank or arch, and for likeuse low what might seem a zone chosen for ornament, alone matched with stone in studied symmetry, with interspace for the clear waters to pursue their race without restraint. House swiftly have they flown, succeeding, still succeeding. Here the child puts, when the high swollen flood runs fierce and wild, his budding courage to the proof, and here declining manhood learns to note the sly and sure encroachments

33:04of infirmity, thinking how fast time runs, life's end, how near. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Whence that low voice, a whisper from the heart, by William Wordsworth, red for librivox.org. Whence that low voice, a whisper from the heart that told of days long past, when here I roved with friends and kindred, tenderly beloved, some who had early mandates to depart, yet are allowed to steal my path, a thwart by dud and side. Once more do we unite, once more beneath the kind earth's tranquil light, and smothered

34:05joys into new being start. From her unworthy seat, the cloudy stall of time, breaks forth triumphant memory, her glistening trusses bound, yet light and free, as golden locks of birch that rise and fall, on gales that breathe too gently, to recall, ought of the fading years in clemency. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. I thought of thee, my partner and my guide, by William Wordsworth, red for librivox.org. I thought of thee, my partner and my guide, as being passed away, vain sympathies, for backward, dudden, as I cast my eyes I see what was and is and will abide.

35:13Still glides the stream, and shall forever glide. The form remains, the function never dies, while we, the brave, the mighty, and the wise, we men who in our mourn of youth defied the elements must vanish, be it so. Enough, if something from our hands have power to live, and act, and serve the future hour, and if, as toward the silent tomb we go, through love, through hope, and fates transcendent dour, we feel that we are greater than we know. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Broke, who society the poet seeks, by William Wordsworth, red for librivox.org.

36:18Broke, who society the poet seeks, intent his wasted spirits to renew, and whom the curious painter doth pursue through rocky passes, among flowery creeks, and tracks the dancing down thy water-bricks. I wish we're mine some type of thee to view, thee, and not thee thyself. I would not do like greece an artist, give thee human cheeks, channels for tears, no niad should thou be, have neither limbs feet feathers joins nor hairs. It seems the eternal soul is clothed in thee, with pure robes, then those of flesh and blood, and hath bestowed on thee a safer good, unweary joy, and life without its cares.

37:21End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Me thinks that too some vacant hermitage, by William Wordsworth, red for librivox.org. Me thinks that too some vacant hermitage, my feet would rather turn, to some dry nook, scooped out of living rock, and near a brook, her all down a mountain coal from stage to stage, yet tempering for my sight its bustling rage, in the soft heaven of a translucent pool, thens creeping under silven archers' cool, fit haunt of shapes, whose glorious equipage would elevate my dreams. A beach and bowl, a maple dish, my furniture should be, crisp yellow leaves my bed, the hooting

38:24owl my night watch, nor should air the crested foul from Thorpoorville, his matins sound for me, tired of the world and all its industry. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. There is a little unpretending real, by William Wordsworth, red for librivox.org. There is a little unpretending real of limpid water, humbler far than ought, that ever among men or niad sought, notice or name, it quivers down the hill, furrowing its shallow way with dubious will. Yet to my mind this ganty stream is brought, oftener than ganges or the nile, a thought

39:26of private recollection, sweet and still. This parish with their moons, year treads on year, but faithful Emma, thou with me can't say that while ten thousand pleasures disappear and flies their memory fast almost as they, the immortal spirit of one happy day, lingers beside that rill, in vision clear. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Written upon a blank leaf in the complete angler, by William Wordsworth, red for librivox.org. While flowing rivers yield a blameless sport shall live the name of Walton, sage Benign,

40:28whose pen, the mysteries of the rod and line unfolding, did not fruitlessly exhort to reverend watching of each still report that nature hutters from her rural shrine. Meek, nobly versed in simple discipline, he found the longest summer day too short, due his loved pastime, given by Segi Lee, or down the tempting maze of shawford brook, fairer than life itself in this sweet book, the cow-slip bank and shady willotry, and the fresh meads were flowed from every nook of his full bosom, gladsome piety. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. O friend, I know not which way I must look, by William Wordsworth, red for librivox.org.

41:40O friend, I know not which way I must look, for comfort, being, as I am, oppressed, to think that now our life is only dressed for show, mean handywork of craftsmen, cook, or groom. We must run glittering like a brook in the open sunshine, or we are unblest. The wealthiest man among us is the best, no grandeur now in nature, or in book delights us. Rappin, avarice, expense, this is idolatry, and these we adore. Plain living and high thinking are no more. The homely beauty of the good old cause is gone. Our peace, our fearful innocence, and pure religion, breathing household laws.

42:43End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The world is too much with us late and soon, by William Wordsworth, red for librivox.org. The world is too much with us late and soon, getting and spending we lay waste our powers, little we see in nature that is ours. We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon, the sea that bears her bosom to the moon, the winds that will be howling at all hours, and are up gathered now, like sleeping flowers. For this, for everything we are out of tune, it moves us not. Great God, I'd rather be a pagan, suckled in a creed out warn.

43:44So might I, standing on this pleasant lee, have glimpses that would make me less for me, have sight of proteus rising from the sea, or here old tritan blow his wreathed horn. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Milton, thou shud's be living at this hour, by William Wordsworth, red for librivox.org. Milton, thou shud's be living at this hour, England has need of thee. She is a fan of stagnant waters, altars sord and pen, fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and power, have forfeited their ancient English dour of inward happiness.

44:47We are selfish men, O raise us up, return to us again, and give us manners, virtue, freedom, power, thy soul was like a star, and dwelt apart. Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea, pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free. So didst thou travel on life's common way, in cheerful godliness, and yet thy heart, the lolliest duties on herself did lay. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Great men have been among us, hands that penned, by William Wordsworth, red for librivox.org.

45:51Great men have been among us, hands that penned, and tongues that uttered wisdom, better than on. The later Sydney, marvel, Harrington, young vain, and others who called Milton Friend. These moralists could act and comprehend. They knew how genuine glory was put on. Tought us how rightfully a nation shone in splendor, what strength was that would not bend but in magnanimous meekness. Thus, tis strange, hath brought forth no such souls as we had then. Perpetual emptiness, unceasing change, no single volume paramount, no code, no master's spirit, no determined road, but equally a want of books and men.

46:53End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. It is not to be thought of that the flood, by William Wordsworth, red for librivox.org. It is not to be thought of that the flood of British freedom, which to the open sea of the world's praise, from dark antiquity, hath flowed, with pomp of waters unwithstood. Roused though it be full often to a mood which spurns the check of salutary bans, that this most famous stream in bogs and sands should perish, and too evil and too good be lost forever. In our halls is hung armory of the invincible knights of old. We must be free or die, who speak the tongue that Shakespeare spake, the faith and morals

47:59hold which Milton held. In everything we are sprung of earth's first blood, have titles manifold. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. When I have born in memory, what has tamed? By William Wordsworth, red for librivox.org. When I have born in memory, what has tamed great nations? I when nobling thoughts depart when men change swords for ledgers, and desert the students bower for gold. Some fears unnamed I had, my country, am I to be blamed? Now when I think of thee and what thou art, verily, in the butt of my heart of those unfilial

49:01fears I am ashamed, for dearly must we prize thee. Who find in thee a bulwark for the cause of men? And I, by my affection, was beguiled, what wonder if a poet now and then among the many movements of his mind, failed for thee as a lover or a child? End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Near Dover. By William Wordsworth. Red for librivox.org. Inland, within a hollow veil I stood, and so while sea was calm and air was clear, the coast of France, the coast of France, how near, drawn almost into frightful neighborhood.

50:03I shrunk, for verily the barrier flood was like a lake, or river bright and fair, a span of waters. Yet what power is there, what mightiness for evil and for good, even so does God protect us if we be virtuous and wise? Winds blow and waters roll, strength to the brave, and power and deity, yet in themselves are nothing. One decree spake laws to them, and said that by the soul only, the nations shall be great and free. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Vanguard of Liberty. Ye men of Kent.

51:04By William Wordsworth. Red for librivox.org. Vanguard of Liberty. Ye men of Kent. The children of a soil that does advance her haughty brow against the coast of France. Now is the time to prove your heart even, to France be words of invitation sent. They from their fields can see the countenance of your fierce war. May Ken the glittering lens, and hear you shouting forth your brave intent. Hived single in bold parly, ye of your, did from the Norman-Winner-Gallant wreath, confirmed the charters that were yours before. No parlying now, in Briton as one breath, we all are with you now from sure to sure.

52:04Ye men of Kent, to victory, or death. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Thought of a Britain on the subjugation of Switzerland. By William Wordsworth. Red for librivox.org. Two voices are there. One is of the sea. One of the mountains. Each a mighty voice. In both from age to age thou didst rejoice. They were thy chosen music. Liberty. There came a tyrant, and with holy glee thou foughtst against him, but hast vainly striven. Thou from thy alpine holds, at length, art driven, where not a torrent murmurs heard

53:05by thee. Of one deep bliss thy neer has been bereft. Then cleave, O cleave to that which still is left. Four high-salt made, what sorrow would it be that mountain floods should thunder as before, and ocean bellow from his rocky shore, and neither awful voice be heard by thee. And a poem. This recording is in the public domain. An invasion being expected, October 1803. By William Wordsworth. Red for librivox.org. Six thousand veterans practiced in war's game. Pride men. At kill a cranky were arrayed against an equal host that wore the plate.

54:10Shepherds and herdsmen. Like a whirlwind came the Highlanders. The slaughter spread like flame. And Gary, thundering down his mountain road, was stopped, and could not breathe beneath the load of the dead bodies. As a day of shame for them whom precept and the pedantry of cold mechanic battle do enslave. Oh, for a single hour of that dundee, who on that day the word of onset gave. Like conquest with the men of England sea, and her foes find alike in glorious grave. The poem. This recording is in the public domain. Composed in the valley near Dover, on the day of landing.

55:12By William Wordsworth. Red for librivox.org. Here on our native soil we breathe once more. The cock that crows, the smoke that curls, that sound of bells. Those boys who in your meadow ground, in white-sleeved shirts, are playing, and the roar of the waves breaking on the chalky shore. All, all are English. Often have I looked round with joy in Ken's green veils, but never found myself so satisfied in heart before. Europe is yet in bonds, but let that pass, thought for another moment. Thou art free my country, and is joy enough and pride for one hour's perfect bliss to tread

56:13the grass of England once again, and here and see, with such a dear companion at my side. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Not love, not war, nor the tumultuous swell. By William Wordsworth. Red for librivox.org. Not love, not war, nor the tumultuous swell of civil conflict, nor the wrecks of change, nor duties struggling with affliction's strange. Not these alone inspired the tuneful shell, but wear untroubled peace and concord dwell. There also is the muse, not loath to range. Arching the twilight smoke of caught or grained, skyward ascending from a woody dail.

57:19Meek aspirations please her, lone endeavour and sage content and placid melancholy. She loves to gaze upon a crystal river, diaphanus, because it travels slowly. Soft as the music that would charm forever. The flower of sweet as smell is shy and lowly. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. To Tussan Luvatura by William Wordsworth. Red for librivox.org. To Tussan Luvatura by William Wordsworth. The most unhappy man of men, whether the whistling rustic tent his plow within thy hearing, or thy head be now pillowed in some deep dungeon's earless den. Oh, miserable chieftain, wear and when wilt they'll find patience.

58:25Yet die not, do thou wear rather in thy bonds a cheerful brow, though fallen thyself never to rise again, live and take comfort, thou hast left behind powers that will work for thee. Air, earth and skies, there's not a breathing of the common wind that will forget thee, thou hast great allies, thy friends are exaltations, agonies, and love, and man's unconquerable mind. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. When Fuloctides in the Lemnian Isle by William Wordsworth. Red for librivox.org. In Fuloctides in the Lemnian Isle, like a form sculptured at a monument, lay couched.

59:30On him or his dread bow, unbent, some while bird-offed might settle and beguile, the rigid features of a transient smile. Disperse the tear, or to the sigh give vent, slackening the pains of ruthless banishment, him his loved home, and from heroic toil. And trust that spiritual creatures round us move, griefs to allay, which reason cannot heal. Yay, various reptiles have suffice to prove to fettered wretchedness that no bastille is deep enough to exclude the light of love. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain.

1:00:31When Houghty Expectations Prostrate Lie by William Wordsworth. Red for librivox.org. And Houghty Expectations Prostrate Lie. And grand your crouches like a guilty thing. Offed shall the lowly weak till nature bring mature release in fair society. Survive, and fortunes at most anger try. Like these frail snow-drops that together cling, and nod their helmets, smitten by the wing of many a furious whirl-blast sweeping by. Observe the faithful flowers. If small too great may lead the thoughts, the struggling used to stand the amethian fail-angs. Nobly obstinate, and so the bright immortal Thiebun band, whom onset fiercely urged

1:01:34that Joves' command might overwhelm but could not separate. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Or the wide earth on mountain and on plain. By William Wordsworth. Red for librivox.org. Or the wide earth on mountain and on plain. Dwells in the affections and the soul of man, a godhead, like the universal pan. But more exalted, with a brighter train, and shall his bounty be dispensed in vain. Showered equally on city and on field, and neither hope nor steadfast promise yield, in these usurping times of fear and pain.

1:02:36Such doom awaits us. Nay, forbid at heaven, we know the arduous strife, the eternal laws to which the triumph of all good is given. High sacrifice and labor without pause, even to the death. This wherefore should the eye of man converse with immortality. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. On the extinction of the Venetian Republic. By William Wordsworth. Red for librivox.org. When stood she hold the gorgeous east in fee, and was the safeguard of the west, the worth of Venice did not fall below her birth, Venice, the eldest child of liberty.

1:03:38She was a maiden city, bright and free, no guile seduced, no force could violate, and when she took unto herself a mate, she must espouse the everlasting sea. And what if she had seen those glories fade, those titles vanish, and that strength decay, yet shall some tribute of regret be paid when her long life hath reached its final day? Men are we, and must grieve when even the shade of that which once was great is past away. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. By Grassmeer Lake. By William Wordsworth. Red for librivox.org.

1:04:41Clouds lingering yet, extended solid bars through the grey west, and low these waters steelled by briceless air to smoothest polish, yield a vivid repetition of the stars. Jove, Venus, and the ruddy crest of Mars amid his fellows beautifully revealed that happy distance from Earth's groaning field, where ruthless mortals wage incessant wars. Is it a mirror, or the nether sphere, opening to view the abyss in which she feeds her own calm fires? But list, a voice is near. Great pan himself, low whispering through the reeds. Be thankful thou, for if unholy deeds ravage the world. Tranquility is here.

1:05:42End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Composed by the seaside near Calais. By William Wordsworth. Red for librivox.org. Fair star of evening. Splender of the west. Star of my country. On the horizons brink thou hangest, stooping as might seem. To sink on England's bosom. Yet well pleased to rest meanwhile, and be to her a glorious crest, conspicuous to the nations. Though I think should be my country's emblem, and should wink bright star, with laughter on her banners, dressed in thy fresh beauty. There that dusky spot beneath thee. That is England, there she lies.

1:06:44Blessings beyond you both. One hope, one lot, one life, one glory. I, with many a fear for my dear country, many heart-felt size, among men who do not love her. Finger here. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. As leaves are to the tree whereon they grow. By William Wordsworth. Red for librivox.org. As leaves are to the tree whereon they grow, and wither. Every human generation is to the being of a mighty nation. Locked in our worlds embrace through wheel and woe. Thought that should teach the zealot to forego rash schemes.

1:07:50To abdure all selfish agitation, and seek through noiseless pains and moderation. The unblemished good they only can bestow. Alas, with most who weigh futurity against time present, passion holds the scales. Hence equal ignorance of both prevails, and nations sink. For struggling to be free are doomed to flounder on, like wounded whales tossed on the bosom of a stormy sea. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. A dear red alien laurels that have grown. By William Wordsworth. Red for librivox.org.

1:08:52A dear red alien laurels that have grown and spread as if ye knew that days might come when ye would shelter in a happy home on this fair mount, a poet of your own. One who near ventured for a delphic crown to sue the God, but haunting your green shade all seasons through is humbly pleased to braid ground flowers beneath your guardianship self-sown. Farewell. No minstrels now with harp new strung for summer-wondering, quit their household bowers. Yet not for this once poise a tongue to cheer the itinerant on whom she pours her spirit while he crosses lonely moors, or musing sits forsaken halls among.

1:09:52End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Trossics by William Wordsworth. Red for librivox.org. Was not a nook within this Sodom pass, but were an apt confessional, for one taught by his summer spent, his autumn gone, that life is but a tale of mourning grass, withered at eve. From scenes of art which chase that thought away, turn, and with watchful eyes feed at mid-nature's old felicities. Box, rivers, and smooth lakes more clear than glass, untouched, unbreathed upon. Thrice happy quest, if from a golden perch of aspirin spray, October's workmanship to

1:10:55rival may, the pensive warbler of the ruddy breast, that moral sweeten by a heaven-tought lay, lolling the year, with all its cares to rest. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Admonition by William Wordsworth. Red for librivox.org. Till maced thou halt and gaze with brightening eye, the lovely cottage in the guardian nook hath stirred thee deeply, with its own deer brook, its own small pasture, almost its own sky. But covet not thee abode, for bear to sigh, as many do, repining while they look.

1:11:55In truders who would tear from nature's book this precious leaf with harsh impiety. Think what the home must be if it were thine, even thine, though few thy wants. Roof, window, door, the very flowers are sacred to the poor, the roses to the porch which they entwine, yea, all that now enchanc thee, from the day on which it should be touched, would melt away. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Forest Hugh Jovenshant Caterdon by William Wordsworth. Red for librivox.org. The Forest Hugh Jovenshant Caterdon is but a name, no more is inglewood that swept from

1:12:57hill to hill, from flood to flood. On her last thorn the nightly moon has shone, yet still, though an appropriate wild be non. Fair park spread wide where Adam Bell might dain, with clamor the cluff where they alive again. To kill for Mary Feast their venison. Nor once the holy abbot's gliding shade his church, with monumental wreck bestrone. The feudal warrior chief, a ghost unlaid, had still his castle, though a skeleton, that he may watch by night and lessons con, of power that perishes and writes that fade. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain.

1:13:58X Lusha Pell by William Wordsworth. Red for librivox.org. Was it too disenchant and to one do that we approach the seat of Charlemagne, to sweep from many an old romantic strain that faith which no devotion may renew? Why does this puny church present to view her feeble columns, and that scanty chair? The sword that one of our weak times might wear. Objects of false pretence, or meanly true. If from a traveler's fortune I might claim a palpable memorial of that day, then would I seek the Pyrenean breach that roll and clove, with huge two-handed sway, and to the enormous labor left his name, where unremitting frosts the rocky crescent bleach. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain.

1:15:04Between Namur and Liege by William Wordsworth. Red for librivox.org. What lovely or home could gentle fancy choose? Is this the stream whose cities heights and plains, war's favorite playground, are with crimson stains familiar, as the mourn with pearly dues? The mourn, that now along the silver muse, spreading her peaceful and signs, calls the swans to tend their silent boats and ringing wanes, or strip the bow whose mellow fruit bestruse the ripening corn beneath it. As mine eyes turn from the fortified and threatening hill, how sweet the prospect of yarnwater re-glade, with its gray rocks clustering in pensive shade, that shaped like old monastic turrets rise from the smooth meadow ground, serene and still.

1:16:13End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Composed on Westminster Bridge, September 3, 1802 by William Wordsworth. Red for librivox.org. Earth has not anything to show more fair, dull what he be of soul who could pass by a sight so touching in its majesty. This city now doth like a garment where the beauty of the morning. Silent, bare, ships, towers, domes, theatres and temples, liopin' onto the fields and to the sky, all bright and glittering in the smokeless air. There did sun more beautifully steep in his first splendor valley, rock or hill. Nair saw high, never felt a calm so deep.

1:17:15The river glided at his own sweet will. Dear God, the very houses seem asleep, and all that mighty heart is lying still. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Roman Antiquities by William Wordsworth. Red for librivox.org How profitless the relics that we call, troubling the last holds of ambitious Rome, unless they chase and fancies that presume too high, or idle agitations, lol, of the world's flatteries if the brain befall to have no seat for thought, were better doom. Like this old helmet, or the eyeless skull of him who gloried in its nodding plume. Heaven out of view, our wishes, what are they?

1:18:19Our fond regrets, tenacious in their grasp, the sages theory, the poets lay, mere fibule, without a robe to clasp, obsolete lamps whose light no time recalls, earns without ashes, fearless lacrimals. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The monument commonly called Long Meg and her daughters, near the river Eden, by William Wordsworth. Red for librivox.org A weight of all, not easy to be born, fell suddenly upon my spirit, cast from the dread bosom of the unknown past, when first I saw that family forlorn. Speak thou, whose massiest rent and stature scorn the power of years, pre-aminent and placed

1:19:25apart to overlook the circle vast. Speak, giant mother. Teller to the mourn while she dispels the combrish shades of night. Put the moon here, emerging from a cloud, at whose behest uproes on British ground that sisterhood, in high-roglific round, forth shadowing, some have deemed the infinite, the inviolable God that tames the proud. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. There set a stripling, pointing with meat pride, by William Wordsworth. Red for librivox.org There set a stripling, pointing with meat pride towards a low roof, with green trees half concealed, is muskil farm, and that's the very field where burns ploughed up the daisy.

1:20:29Far and wide a plain below stretch seaworth, while described above sea clouds, the peaks of aron rose, and by that simple notice the repose of earth-sky sea and air was vivified. Beneath the random beild of clawed or stone, myriads of daisies have shone forth in flower near the larx nest, and in their natural hour have passed away, less happy than the one that by the unwilling plough share, died to prove the tender charm of poetry, and love. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Merry Queen of Scots, by William Wordsworth. Red for librivox.org Deer to the loves and to the graces vowed, the queen drew back the wimple that she wore,

1:21:31and to the throng that on the combrion shore her landing hailed, how touchingly she bowed, and like a star that from a heavy cloud of pine tree foliage poised in air-forth darts, when a soft summer gale at evening parts the gloom that did its loveliness and shroud, she smiled. But time the old Saturnian seer sighed on the wing as her foot pressed the strand, with a step perlusive to a long array of woes and degradations hand in hand, weeping captivity and shuddering fear still by the ensanguant block of father in gale. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. In sight of the town of Cochimuth, where the author was born and his father's remains are laid, by William Wordsworth.

1:22:33Red for librivox.org A point of life between my parents dust and yours, my buried little ones, am I, and to those graves looking habitually in kindred quiet, I repose my trust. Death to the innocent is more than just, and to the sinner mercifully bent. So may I hope, if truly I repent and meekly bear the ills, which bear I must, and you, my offspring, that do still remain, yet may outstrip me in the appointed race. If air through fault of mine in mutual pain we breathe together for a moment's space, the wrong by love provoked, let love arraine, and only love keep in your hearts a place. End of poem.

1:23:34This recording is in the public domain. A place of burial in the south of Scotland, by William Wordsworth, red for librivox.org Part fenced by man, part by a rugged steep, that curbs a foaming brook, a graveyard lies. The hair's best couching place for fearless sleep, which moonlit elves, far seen by credulous eyes, enter in dance, of church or Sabbath ties no vestige now remains, yet thither creep bereft ones, and in lowly anguish weep their prayers out to the wind and naked skies. Proud tomb is none, but rudely sculptured knights, by humble choice of plain old times, are seen level with earth among the hillocks green, union not sad when sunny daybreak

1:24:40smights the spangled turf, and neighboring thickets ring with ubalote from the choirs of spring. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Most sweet at his with un-uplifted eyes, by William Wordsworth, red for librivox.org. Most sweet at his with un-uplifted eyes to pace the ground, if path be there or none, while a fair region round the traveler lies which he forebears again to look upon. Most rather with some soft ideal scene, the work of fancy, or some happy tone of meditation, slipping in between the beauty coming, and the beauty gone. If thought and love desert us, from that day let us break off all comers with the mues,

1:25:45with thought and love companions of our way, what air the senses take or may refuse, the minds in turnal heaven shall shed her dues of inspiration on the humblest lay. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. In King's College Chapel, Cambridge, by William Wordsworth, red for librivox.org. Box not the royal saint with vain expense, with ill-matched aims, the architect who planned, albeit laboring for a scanty band of white robe-scolvers only. This immense and glorious work of fine intelligence. Give all thou cast, I heaven rejects the law of nicely calculated less or more.

1:26:48Though deemed the man who fashioned for the sense, these lofty pillars spread that branching roof self-poised and scooped into ten thousand cells, where light and shade repose, where music dwells, lingering, and wandering on as loath to die. Think thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proof that they were born for immortality. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. They dreamt not of a perishable home, by William Wordsworth, red for librivox.org. They dreamt not of a perishable home, who thus could build. Be mine in hours of fear or groveling thought, to seek a refuge here.

1:27:50Or through the aisles of Westminster to Rome, where bubbles burst and follies dancing foam-meltz, if it crossed the threshold, where the wreath of austroc wisdom droops, or let my path lead to that younger pile, whose sky-like dome has typified by reach of daring art, infinities embrace, whose guardian crest, the silent cross, among the star shall spread as now, when she hath also seen her breast filled with mementos, say she it with its part of grateful England's overflowing dead. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Rural Ceremony by William Wordsworth, red for librivox.org.

1:28:52Using the sacred book which long has fed our meditations, give we to a day of annual joy, one tributary lay. This day when forth by rustic music led, the village children, while the sky is red with evening lights, advance in long array, through the still churchyard, each with garland gay, that carried scepter-like or tops the head of the proud bearer, to the wide church-door charged with these offerings which their fathers bore for decoration in the papal time. The innocent procession softly moves. The spirit of Lord is pleased in heaven's pure climb, and hukers voice the spectacle approves. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain.

1:29:56Places of worship by William Wordsworth, red for librivox.org. As star that shines dependent upon star is to the sky while we look up in love as to the deep fair ships, which though they move, seem fixed to eyes, that watch them from afar, as to the sandy desert fountains are, with palm grove shaded at wide intervals, whose fruit around the sunburnt native falls, of roving tired or desolatory war. Reach to this British aisle her Christian veins, each linked to each for kindred services, her spires, her steeple towers, with glittering veins, far-canned, her chapels lurking among trees, where a few villagers on bended knees find solace, which a busy world disdains.

1:31:04End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Who but is pleased to watch the moon on high, by William Wordsworth, red for librivox.org? Who but is pleased to watch the moon on high, traveling where she from time to time in shrouds her head, and nothing loath her majesty renounces, till among the scattered clouds one with its kindling edge, declares that soon will reappear before the uplifted eye, a form as bright as beautiful a moon, to glide in open prospect through clear sky. Pity that such a promise air should prove false in the issue, that young seeming space of sky should be in truth the steadfast face of a cloud, flat and dense, through which

1:32:05must move, by transit not unlike man's frequent doom, the wanderer lost in more determined gloom. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The shepherd looking eastward, softly said, by William Wordsworth, red for librivox.org. The shepherd looking eastward, softly said, bright as thy veil o' moon, as thou art bright, forthwith that little cloud in ether spread and penetrated all with tender light, she cast away and showed her full-gent head, uncovered, dazzling the beholder's sight as if to vindicate her beauty's right, her beauty thoughtlessly disparaged.

1:33:07Meanwhile that veil, removed or thrown aside, went floating from her darkening as it went, and a huge mass to bury or to hide, approached this glory of the fremmoment, who meekly yields and is obscured, content with one calm triumph of a modest pride. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. With how sad steps o' moon thou climes the sky, by William Wordsworth, red for librivox.org. With how sad steps o' moon thou climes the sky, how silently and with how one of face, where art thou? Thou so often seen on high, running among the clouds, a wooden-imps race, unhappy nuns

1:34:14whose common breaths a sigh which they would stifle, move at such a pace, the northern wind to call thee to the chase, must blow to night his bugle horn. Had I the power of Merlin, God us, this should be, and all the stars fast as the clouds were driven, should Sally forth to keep thee company, hurrying and sparkling through the clear blue heaven, but Cynthia, should to thee the palm be given, queen both for beauty and for majesty. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The stars are mansions built by nature's hand, by William Wordsworth, red for librivox.org.

1:35:16The stars are mansions built by nature's hand, and happily there the spirits of the blessed dwell, clothed in radiance, their immortal vest. Huge ocean shows within his yellow strand, a habitation marvelously planned for life to occupy, in love and rest, all that we see is dome, or vault, or nest, or fortress, reared at nature's sage command. Had thought for every season, but the spring gave it while cares were weighing on my heart, mid-song of birds and insects murmuring, and while the youthful year's prolific art of bud, leaf, blade and flower was freshening of boats, where self-dusturbans hath no part.

1:36:17End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. To a snowdrop, by William Wordsworth, red for librivox.org. Loan flower, hemmed in with snows, and white as they, but hardier far. Once more I see the bend thy forehead, as if fearful to offend, like an unbidden guest, though day by day storms, salying from the mountain tops, way lay the rising sun, and on the plains descend. Yet art thou welcome, welcome as a friend whose zeal outruns his promise. Blue-eyed May shall soon behold this border, thickly set with bright junk-wills, their odors lavishing on the soft west wind and his frolic peers.

1:37:18Nor will I then thy modest grace forget, chaste snowdrop, venturous harbinger of spring, and pensive monitor of fleeting years. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Hark to s'thrush, undaunted, undepressed, by William Wordsworth, red for librivox.org. Hark to s'thrush, undaunted, undepressed, by twilight premature of cloud and rain, nor does that roaring wind deaden his strain, who carols thinking of his love and nest, and seems as more incited, still more blessed. Thanks thou hast snapped a fireside prisoner's chain, exalting warbler, eased a fretted

1:38:21brain, and in a moment charmed my cares to rest. Yes, I will forth bold bird, and front the blast, that we may sing together, if thou wilt, so loud, so clear, my partner through life's day. Mutin' her nest, love chosen, if not love built, like thine, shall gladden, as in seasons past, thrilled by loose snatches of the social lay. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. I dropped my pen, and listened to the wind, by William Wordsworth, red for librivox.org by Bruce Cachok. I dropped my pen, and listened to the wind, that sang of trees up torn, and vessels tossed,

1:39:25a midnight harmony, and wholly lost to the general sense of men by chains confined of business, care or pleasure, or resigned to timely sleep. Thought I, the impassioned strain which without aid or numbers, I sustain, like acceptation from the world will find, yet some with apprehensive ear shall drink adourged, evaply breathed or sorrows past, and to the attendant promise will give heed the prophecy, like that of this wild blast, which, what it makes the heart with sadness shrink, tells also of bright combs that shall succeed. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. It is a Beauty Us Evening, Carman Free, by William Wordsworth, red for librivox.org.

1:40:35It is a Beauty Us Evening, Carman Free, the holy time is quiet as a nun, breathless with adoration. The broad sun is sinking down, in its tranquility, the gentleness of heaven, broods or the sea. Listen, the mighty being is awake, and doth with his eternal motion make a sound like thunder, everlastingly. Dear child, dear girl, that walkest with me here, if thou appear untouched by solemn thought, my nature is not therefore less divine, thou liest an Abraham's bosom all the year, and worships at the temples in her shrine, God being with thee, when we know it not. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain.

1:41:38To the cookoo, by William Wordsworth, red for librivox.org. Not the whole warbling grove in concert heard when sunshine follows shower, the breast can thrill like the first summons cookoo of thy bill, with its twin notes inseparably paired, the captive mid-damp faults unsound, unaird, measuring the periods of his lonely doom, that cry can reach, and to the sick man's room sends gladness, by no languid smile declared. The lordly eagle race through hostile search may perish, time may come when never more, the wilderness shall hear the lion roar, but long as cock shall crow from household perch to rouse the dawn, soft gale shall speed thy wing, and thy erratic voice be faithful to

1:42:42the spring. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Near Onio's stream I spied a gentle dove, by William Wordsworth, red for librivox.org. Near Onio's stream I spied a gentle dove, perched on an olive branch, and heard her cwing, mid newborn blossoms that soft heirs were wooing, while all things present told of joy and love. But restless fancy left that olive grove to hail the exploratory bird, renewing hope for the few, who, at the world's undoing, on the great flood, were spared to live and move. O bounteous heaven, signs true as dove and bow brought to the ark are coming ever more,

1:43:46even though we seek them not, but while we plow the sea of life without a visible shore, do neither promise ask nor grace implore, in what alone is ours, the living now. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Next on a May morning, by William Wordsworth, red for librivox.org. Life with young lambs, like day, is just begun, yet nature seems to them a heavenly guide. Does joy approach? They meet the coming tide, and soleness avoid, as now they shun pale twilight's lingering glooms, and in the sun, couch near their dams, with quiet satisfied.

1:44:49Or gamble, each with his shadow at his side, varying at shape, wherever he may run, as they from turf, yet whore with sleepy dew, all turn, and court the shining and the green, where herbs look up, and opening flowers are seen. Why, to God's goodness, cannot we be true, and so, his gifts and promises between, feed to the last, on pleasures ever new. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. End of poem. I am not one who much or oft delight, to season my fireside with personal talk, of friends who live within an easy walk, or neighbors, daily, weekly, in my sight, and for my chance

1:45:56acquaintance, ladies bright, sons, mothers, maidens withering on the stock, these all wear out of me, like forms, with chalk, painted on rich men's floors, for one feast night. Better than such discourse does silence long, long barren silence, square with my desire, to sit without emotion, hope, or aim, in the loved presence of my cottage fire, and listen to the flapping of the flame, or kettle whispering, its faint under song. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Yet life you say, is life we have seen and see, by William Wordsworth, read for librivox.org.

1:46:59Yet life you say, is life we have seen and see, and with a living pleasure we describe, and fits of sprightly malice do but bribe, the languid mind, into activity, sound sense, love itself, and mirth and glee, are fostered by the comment and the jive. Even be it so, yet still among your tribe our daily worlds true worldlings, rank not me, children are blessed and powerful, their world lies more justly balanced, partly at their feet, and part far from them. Most melodies are those that are by distance made, more sweet, who is mind is but the mind of his own eyes, he is a slave, the meanest we can meet. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain.

1:48:05Things have we, and as far as we can go, by William Wordsworth, read for librivox.org. Wings have we, and as far as we can go, we may find pleasure, wilderness and wood, blank ocean and mere sky, support that mood, which with the lofty sanctifies the low. Wings, books are each a world, and books we know are a substantial world, both pure and good. Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood, our pastime and our happiness will grow. There find I personal themes, a plentiest store, matter wherein right-voluable I am, to which I listen with a ready ear. You shall be named, preemmonently dear, the gentle lady married to the more, and heavenly

1:49:07una, with her milk-white lamb. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Nor can I not believe but that hereby, by William Wordsworth. And for librivox.org. Nor can I not believe but that hereby, great gains are mine, for thus I live remote from evil speaking. Ranker, never sought, comes to me not, malignant truth or lie. Hens have I genial seasons, hens have I smooth passions, smooth discourse and joyous thought, thus from day to day my little boat rocks in its harbor, lodging peaceably. Blessings be with them, and eternal praise who gave us nobler loves, and nobler cares.

1:50:10The poets, who on earth have made us heirs of truth, and pure delight, by heavenly lays. Oh, might my name be numbered among theirs, then gladly would I end my mortal days. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. How sweet it is when mother fancy rocks, by William Wordsworth, read for librivox.org. How sweet it is when mother fancy rocks the wayward brain, to saunter through a wood, an old place full of many a lovely brood, tall trees, green arbors, and ground flowers in flocks, and wild rose tiptoe upon hawthorn stocks, like a bold girl, who plays her agile

1:51:13pranks at wakes and fares with wondering mountabangs, when she stands cresting the clown's head, and mocks the crowd beneath her. Verily I think such place to me is sometimes like a dream, or map of the whole world, thoughts linked by link, enter through heirs and eyesight with such gleam of all things that at last in fear I shrink and leap at once from the delicious stream. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Why, art thou silent, is thy lava plant, by William Wordsworth, read for librivox.org? Why, art thou silent, is thy lava plant of such weak fiber that the treacherous air of absence

1:52:19withers what was once so fair, is there no debt to pay, no boon to grant, yet have my thoughts for thee being vigilant, bound to thy service with unceasing care, the minds least generous wish amendican for not but what thy happiness could spare. Speak, though this soft warm heart once free to hold a thousand tender pleasures, thine and mine, be left more desolate, more dreary cold than a forsaken bird's nest filled with snow, mid-its own bush of leafless eglantine. Speak, that my torturing doubts there end may know. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. To the planet Venus, an evening star, by William Wordsworth, read for librivox.org.

1:53:28Though joy attend thee, orient, at the birth of dawn, it cheers the lofty spirit most to watch thy course when daylight fled from earth, in the grey sky hath left his lingering ghost, perplexed as if between a splendor lost and splendor slowly mustering. Since the sun, the absolute, the world absorbing one, relinquished half his empire to the host emboldened by thy guidance, holy star. Holy as princely, who that looks on thee touching as now, in thy humility, the mountain borders of this seat of care, can question that thy countenance is bright, celestial power, as much with love, as light. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain.

1:54:36The Dictory Sonnet, by William Wordsworth, read for librivox.org. Serving no hotly muse, my hands have here disposed some cultured floweratts, drawn from spots where they bloomed singly, or enscattered knots, each kind in several beds of one part here, both to allure the casual loiterer, and that so placed my nurslings may require, studious regard with opportune delight, nor beyond thanked unless I fondly err. But metaphor dismissed and thanks apart, reader, farewell. My last words let them be. If in this book, fancy and truth agree, if simple nature trained by careful art, through it have won a passage to thy heart, grant me thy love, thy crave no other fee.

1:55:44End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. End of a selection from the Sonnet's of William Wordsworth, by William Wordsworth.