Daffodils

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. 

William Wordsworth

A Character

Gianni Bellini

I MARVEL how Nature could ever find space

      For so many strange contrasts in one human face:

      There's thought and no thought, and there's paleness and bloom

      And bustle and sluggishness, pleasure and gloom.

      There's weakness, and strength both redundant and vain;

      Such strength as, if ever affliction and pain

      Could pierce through a temper that's soft to disease,

      Would be rational peace--a philosopher's ease.

      There's indifference, alike when he fails or succeeds,

      And attention full ten times as much as there needs;            

      Pride where there's no envy, there's so much of joy;

      And mildness, and spirit both forward and coy.

      There's freedom, and sometimes a diffident stare

      Of shame scarcely seeming to know that she's there,

      There's virtue, the title it surely may claim,

      Yet wants heaven knows what to be worthy the name.

      This picture from nature may seem to depart,

      Yet the Man would at once run away with your heart;

      And I for five centuries right gladly would be

      Such an odd such a kind happy creature as he.   

William Wordsworth

To a distant friend

Why art thou silent? Is thy love a plant

Of such weak fibre that the treacherous air

Of absence withers what was once so fair?

Is there no debt to pay, no boon to grant?

Yet have my thoughts for thee been vigilant,

Bound to thy service with unceasing care —

The mind's least generous wish a mendicant

For nought 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 fill'd with snow

'Mid its own bush of leafless eglantine —

William Wordsworth 

A Farewell

View from Rydal Mount, home of the Romantic poet William Wordsworth, Lake District, UK - Photo by Tommy Shakes

FAREWELL, thou little Nook of mountain-ground,

Thou rocky corner in the lowest stair

Of that magnificent temple which doth bound

One side of our whole vale with grandeur rare;

Sweet garden-orchard, eminently fair,

The loveliest spot that man hath ever found,

Farewell!-we leave thee to Heaven's peaceful care,

Thee, and the Cottage which thou dost surround.

Our boat is safely anchored by the shore,

And there will safely ride when we are gone; 

The flowering shrubs that deck our humble door

Will prosper, though untended and alone:

Fields, goods, and far-off chattels we have none:

These narrow bounds contain our private store

Of things earth makes, and sun doth shine upon;

Here are they in our sight -we have no more.

Sunshine and shower be with you, bud and bell!

For two months now in vain we shall be sought:

We leave you here in solitude to dwell

With these our latest gifts of tender thought; 

Thou, like the morning, in thy saffron coat,

Bright gowan, and marsh-marigold, farewell!

Whom from the borders of the Lake we brought,

And placed together near our rocky Well.

We go for One to whom ye will be dear;

And she will prize this Bower, this Indian shed,

Our own contrivance, Building without peer!

-A gentle Maid, whose heart is lowly bred,

Whose pleasures are in wild fields gathered,

With joyousness, and with a thoughtful cheer, 

Will come to you; to you herself will wed;

And love the blessed life that we lead here.

Dear Spot! which we have watched with tender heed,

Bringing thee chosen plants and blossoms blown

Among the distant mountains, flower and weed,

Which thou hast taken to thee as thy own,

Making all kindness registered and known;

Thou for our sakes, though Nature's child indeed,

Fair in thyself and beautiful alone,

Hast taken gifts which thou dost little need. 

And O most constant, yet most fickle Place,

Thou hast thy wayward moods, as thou dost show

To them who look not daily on thy face;

Who, being loved, in love no bounds dost know,

And say'st, when we forsake thee, 'Let them go!'

Thou easy-hearted Thing, with thy wild race

Of weeds and flowers, till we return be slow,

And travel with the year at a soft pace.

Help us to tell Her tales of years gone by,

And this sweet spring, the best beloved and best; 

Joy will be flown in its mortality;

Something must stay to tell us of the rest.

Here, thronged with primroses, the steep rock's breast

Glittered at evening like a starry sky;

And in this bush our sparrow built her nest,

Of which I sang one song that will not die.

O happy Garden! whose seclusion deep

Hath been so friendly to industrious hours;

And to soft slumbers, that did gently steep

Our spirits, carrying with them dreams of flowers, 

And wild notes warbled among leafy bowers;

Two burning months let summer overleap,

And, coming back with Her who will be ours,

Into thy bosom we again shall creep. 

William Wordsworth

by VladimirVolegov

"A poesia é o transbordamento espontâneo de sentimentos intensos: tem a sua origem na emoção recordada num estado de tranquilidade"

William Wordsworth 

Low breathings coming after me, and sounds

Of indistinguishable motion, steps

Almost as silent as the turf they trod;
[…]

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Tênue respirar atrás de mim, e sons

De movimento indistingível, passos

Quase tão silenciosos quanto a relva que eles pisam.

William Wordsworth