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William Wordsworth. Biography. Wordsworth was born 3 rd April 1770 in Cockermouth Cumberland. Early on in life William spent little time with his father, but was taught poetry by John Wordsworth, including works from Milton, Spenser and Shakespeare.
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Biography Wordsworth was born 3rd April 1770 in Cockermouth Cumberland. Early on in life William spent little time with his father, but was taught poetry by John Wordsworth, including works from Milton, Spenser and Shakespeare. Education wise William had been taught by his mother to read, and attended a small school in the town, but after his mother, Ann Cookson, died in 1778 John Wordsworth sent William to Hawkshead Grammar School. His debut as a writer was in 1787 when ‘The European Magazine’ published one of his sonnets. He also started at St John’s College, Cambridge, studying to eventually get his B.A. in 1791. During summer breaks Wordsworth would take walking tours of Europe, which further inspired him.
William Wordsworth married childhood friend Mary Hutchinson and together they had five children. One of his most famous of works was collaboration published in 1798 with close friend Samuel Coleridge, ‘Lyrical Ballads’ is an important piece of work in the English Romantic Movement. William Wordsworth died of pleurisy on 23rd of April. The lengthy ‘poem to Coleridge’ or better known as ‘The Prelude’ was published several months after his death by his widow Mary, and although at the time there was not a great interest in that work, it has grown to be recognised as William Wordsworth’s Masterpiece.
Yew Trees There is a Yew-tree, pride of Lorton Vale,Which to this day stands single, in the midstOf its own darkness, as it stood of yore:Not loathe to furnish weapons for the BandsOf Umfraville or Percy ere they marchedTo Scotland's heaths; or those that crossed the seaAnd drew their sounding bows at Azincour,Perhaps at earlier Crecy, or Poictiers.Of vast circumference and gloom profoundThis solitary Tree! -a living thingProduced too slowly ever to decay;Of form and aspect too magnificentTo be destroyed. But worthier still of noteAre those fraternal Four of Borrowdale,Joined in one solemn and capacious grove;
Huge trunks! -and each particular trunk a growthOf intertwisted fibres serpentineUp-coiling, and inveteratley convolved, - Nor uninformed with Fantasy, and looksThat threaten the profane; -a pillared shade,Upon whose grassless floor of red-brown hue,By sheddings from the pining umbrage tingedPerennially -beneath whose sable roofOf boughs, as if for festal purpose deckedWith unrejoicing berries -ghostly ShapesMay meet at noontide: Fear and trembling Hope,Silence and Foresight, Death the SkeletonAnd Time the Shadow; there to celebrate,As in a natural temple scattered o'erWith altars undisturbed of mossy stone,United worship; or in mute reposeTo lie, and listen to the mountain floodMurmuring from Glaramara's inmost caves.
To The Daisy In youth from rock to rock I went,From hill to hill in discontentOf pleasure high and turbulent,Most pleased when most uneasy;But now my own delights I make, - My thirst at every rill can slake,And gladly Nature's love partakeOf Thee, sweet Daisy!Thee Winter in the garland wearsThat thinly decks his few grey hairs;Spring parts the clouds with softest airs,That she may sun thee;Whole Summer-fields are thine by right;And Autumn, melancholy wight!Doth in thy crimson head delightWhen rains are on thee.In shoals and bands, a morrice train,Thou greet'st the traveller in the lane,Pleased at his greeting thee again;Yet nothing daunted,Nor grieved, if thou be set at nought:And oft alone in nooks remoteWe meet thee, like a pleasant thought,When such are wanted.
Be violets in their secret mewsThe flowers the wanton Zephyrs choose;Proud be the rose, with rains and dewsHer head impearling;Thou liv'st with less ambitious aim,Yet hast not gone without thy fame;Thou art indeed by many a claimThe Poet's darling.If to a rock from rains he fly,Or, some bright day of April sky,Imprisoned by hot sunshine lieNear the green holly,And wearily at length should fare;He needs but look about, and thereThou art! -a friend at hand, to scareHis melancholy.A hundred times, by rock or bower,Ere thus I have lain couched an hour,Have I derived from thy sweet powerSome apprehension;Some steady love; some brief delight;Some memory that had taken flight;Some chime of fancy wrong or right;Or stray invention.
If stately passions in me burn,And one chance look to Thee should turn,I drink out of a humbler urnA lowlier pleasure;The homely sympathy that heedsThe common life our nature breeds;A wisdom fitted to the needsOf hearts at leisure.Fresh smitten by the morning ray,When thou art up, alert and gay,Then, cheerful Flower! my spirits playWith kindred gladness:And when, at dusk, by dews oppressedThou sink'st, the image of thy restHath often eased my pensive breastOf careful sadness.And all day long I number yet,All seasons through, another debt,Which I, wherever thou art met,To thee am owing;An instinct call it, a blind sense;A happy, genial influence,Coming one knows not how, nor whence,Nor whither going.
Child of the Year! that round dost runThy course, bold lover of the sun,And cheerful when the day's begunAs lark or leveret,Thy long-lost praise thou shalt regain;Nor be less dear to future menThan in old time; -thou not in vainArt Nature's favourite.
The Sun Has Long Been Set The sun has long been set,The stars are out by twos and threes,The little birds are piping yetAmong the bushes and the trees;There's a cuckoo, and one or two thrushes,And a far-off wind that rushes,And a sound of water that gushes,And the cuckoo's sovereign cryFills all the hollow of the sky.Who would go `parading'In London, `and masquerading',On such a night of JuneWith that beautiful soft half-moon,And all these innocent blisses?On such a night as this is!
By The Sea It is a beauteous evening, calm and free;The holy time is quiet as a nunBreathless with adoration; the broad sunIs sinking down in its tranquillity;The gentleness of heaven is on the sea:Listen! the mighty Being is awake,And doth with his eternal motion makeA sound like thunder -everlastingly.Dear child! dear girl! that walkest with me here,If thou appear untouched by solemn thoughtThy nature is not therefore less divine:Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year,And worshipp'st at the Temple's inner shrine,God being with thee when we know it not.
I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud I wandered lonely as a cloudThat 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 treesFluttering and dancing in the breeze.Continuous as the stars that shineAnd twinkle on the Milky Way,They stretched in never-ending lineAlong the margin of a bay:Ten thousand saw I at a glanceTossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced, but theyOut-did the sparkling waves in glee: - A poet could not but be gayIn such a jocund company:I gazed -and gazed -but little thoughtWhat wealth the show to me had brought.For oft, when on my couch I lieIn vacant or in pensive mood,They flash upon that inward eyeWhich is the bliss of solitude;And then my heart with pleasure fillsAnd dances with the daffodils.
Wordsworth uses the rhyming technique of A B A B C C e.g. cloud-hills-crowd-daffodils-trees-breeze. This rhythmic pattern makes the poem flow naturally. The theme present throughout this is poem is the Beauty of Nature, shown by the constant references to flowers, lakes, trees, stars ect... Wordsworth uses personification often “fluttering and dancing in the breeze” which gives the reader a visualisation of flowers blowing gently in the wind, as if they are dancing. The poem begins with a lonely mood, and when the daffodils are found, it sounds lightened, or relieved. Throughout there is a sense of wonderment at how the daffodils look, and what they are doing. At the end of the poem the poet admits that he is alone, but that he is not lonely, because he is surrounded by the daffodils, by nature. Analysis
