Archive for Lines written in early Spring

Wordsworth 250: Lines Written in Early Spring

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , on April 7, 2020 by telescoper

The poet William Wordsworth was born on 7th April 1770, which means that today is the 250th anniversary of his birth.

I’ve posted a number of poems by and reflections on Wordsworth on this blog over the years, including one of the very first pieces I wrote on here. That was an article inspired by one of my oldest and most treasured possessions, little book of Wordsworth’s poems:

I’m very fond of this book and the poetry within it. Unfortunately it, along with most of the rest of my poetry collection, is not with me during this period of lockdown.

Anyway, it’s lovely Spring day in Maynooth so to celebrate that and Wordsworth’s 250th Birthday, here is an appropriate poem.

I heard a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sate reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

To her fair works did Nature link
The human soul that through me ran;
And much it grieved my heart to think
What man has made of man.

Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
And ’tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.

The birds around me hopped and played,
Their thoughts I cannot measure:–
But the least motion which they made
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.

The budding twigs spread out their fan,
To catch the breezy air;
And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.

If this belief from heaven be sent,
If such be Nature’s holy plan,
Have I not reason to lament
What man has made of man?

by William Wordsworth (1770-1850)

Lines Written in Early Spring

Posted in Poetry with tags , on March 23, 2012 by telescoper

I heard a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sate reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

To her fair works did Nature link
The human soul that through me ran;
And much it grieved my heart to think
What man has made of man.

Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
And ’tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.

The birds around me hopped and played,
Their thoughts I cannot measure:–
But the least motion which they made
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.

The budding twigs spread out their fan,
To catch the breezy air;
And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.

If this belief from heaven be sent,
If such be Nature’s holy plan,
Have I not reason to lament
What man has made of man?

by William Wordsworth (1770-1850)