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Selected Poetry of William Wordsworth

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Selected Poetry of William Wordsworth represents Wordsworth's prolific output, from the poems first published in Lyrical Ballads in 1798 that changed the face of English poetry to the late "Yarrow Revisited." Wordsworth's poetry is celebrated for its deep feeling, its use of ordinary speech, the love of nature it expresses, and its representation of commonplace things and Selected Poetry of William Wordsworth represents Wordsworth's prolific output, from the poems first published in Lyrical Ballads in 1798 that changed the face of English poetry to the late "Yarrow Revisited." Wordsworth's poetry is celebrated for its deep feeling, its use of ordinary speech, the love of nature it expresses, and its representation of commonplace things and events. As Matthew Arnold notes, "[Wordsworth's poetry] is great because of the extraordinary power with which [he] feels the joy offered to us in nature, the joy offered to us in the simple elementary affections and duties."


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Selected Poetry of William Wordsworth represents Wordsworth's prolific output, from the poems first published in Lyrical Ballads in 1798 that changed the face of English poetry to the late "Yarrow Revisited." Wordsworth's poetry is celebrated for its deep feeling, its use of ordinary speech, the love of nature it expresses, and its representation of commonplace things and Selected Poetry of William Wordsworth represents Wordsworth's prolific output, from the poems first published in Lyrical Ballads in 1798 that changed the face of English poetry to the late "Yarrow Revisited." Wordsworth's poetry is celebrated for its deep feeling, its use of ordinary speech, the love of nature it expresses, and its representation of commonplace things and events. As Matthew Arnold notes, "[Wordsworth's poetry] is great because of the extraordinary power with which [he] feels the joy offered to us in nature, the joy offered to us in the simple elementary affections and duties."

30 review for Selected Poetry of William Wordsworth

  1. 4 out of 5

    Sean Barrs the Bookdragon

    Over the last few years I have been very unfair to Wordsworth. I’ve avoided him when possible because many of his poems are overly sentimental and just ponder over his conception of nature. However, the more of his poems I read the more complex his ideas become; his words go beyond simple nature admiration, and push into the realms of environmentalist thought. I especially like the idea of humanity’s place on earth in the poem “Brothers.” Wordsworth suggests that we are all mere tourists. Everyt Over the last few years I have been very unfair to Wordsworth. I’ve avoided him when possible because many of his poems are overly sentimental and just ponder over his conception of nature. However, the more of his poems I read the more complex his ideas become; his words go beyond simple nature admiration, and push into the realms of environmentalist thought. I especially like the idea of humanity’s place on earth in the poem “Brothers.” Wordsworth suggests that we are all mere tourists. Everything he uses in the poem to describe the natural world is associated with the immortal and the enduring whereas humanity is associated with the ever changing. The landscape is littered with objects of human death such as gravestones and old churches. It’s a stark contrast, a reminder that whilst we will be here for a short time the landscape, the natural world, will endure: "These Tourists, heaven preserve us! needs must live A profitable life: some glance along, Rapid and gay, as if the earth were air, And they were butterflies to wheel about Long as the summer lasted: some, as wise, Perched on the forehead of a jutting crag, Pencil in hand and book upon the knee, Will look and scribble, scribble on and look, Until a man might travel twelve stout miles, Or reap an acre of his neighbour's corn." In the poem the natural world is also evocative of memory, an ideal Wordsworth explores much further in his Prelude. Natural scenes trigger thoughts from long ago and remind the observer of a past self, of someone who has since grown and changed. The memories are not always joyful, as they are in “Tintern Abbey.” Some are full of heartache and bring forth feelings of loss and isolation, which in itself is something I’ve not seen much of in Wordsworth. Many of his poems are just full of optimism and simplicity. His exploration of memory is perceptive and powerful here. “For I have learned to look on nature, not as in the hour of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes the still, sad music of humanity.” I will always prefer the writing of Percy Shelley, though in here are some absolutely masterful pieces of poetry. Wordsworth clearly helped to shape the poets that came after; his ideas helped to give birth to a new intellectual context that subsequent poets could challenge, revise and expand upon and, dare I say it, even improve. I’m going to be reading through Lyrical Ballads over the next few days, the collection written with the poet Samuel Taylor Coleridge. I’m hoping to find some more good pieces in there too.

  2. 5 out of 5

    Dolors

    ***Updated on April 29th, see below*** I can't help it if my heart doesn't leap with joy with Wordsworth's respectful and magisterial poems. I feel some kind of guilty distance with his realistic and moderated exultation of Nature, his aspirations towards perfection and his Odes full of bucolic and idealized countryside. There are some brilliant stanzas though which show the almost anecdotal wonders of an apparently monotonous life, but still I find them lacking in originality and too self-center ***Updated on April 29th, see below*** I can't help it if my heart doesn't leap with joy with Wordsworth's respectful and magisterial poems. I feel some kind of guilty distance with his realistic and moderated exultation of Nature, his aspirations towards perfection and his Odes full of bucolic and idealized countryside. There are some brilliant stanzas though which show the almost anecdotal wonders of an apparently monotonous life, but still I find them lacking in originality and too self-centered in the soul of the poet, framed in nature, basking in the mutual reflection between the soul and the world; the landscape becoming the revealing image of moral life and religious transcendence. And this recurring need to isolate his artistic self in order to write straight from the soul is not convincing, at least for me. Maybe because he is trying too hard, but he doesn't reach to me the way that other poets do, for example, Robert Frost, who also speaks of the rural life but with an underlying need to return to the origins, which is absent in Wordsworth's poems. "Humility and modest awe, themselves Betray me, serving often for a cloak To a more subtle selfishness; that now Locks every function up in blank reserve, Now dupes me, trusting to an anxious eye" His poems leak with more consciousness than inspiration, his verses being usually nostalgic recollections of a better times, usually during childhood, when the soul is in harmony with the world and experiences are lived intensely and purely. "There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, The earth, and every common sight, To me did seem Apparelled in celestial light, The glory and the freshness of a dream. It is not now as it hath been of yore;- Turn wheresoe'er I may, By night or day, The things which I have seen now I can see no more." But somehow, his willingness to elevate his writing to the intellectual knowledge and to democratize the lyrical language creates an artificial rhetoric which diminishes the impact of his words, at least for me. "Ye winds and sounding cataracts! 'tis yours, Ye mountains! thine, O Nature! Thou hast fed My lofty speculations; and in thee, For this uneasy heart of ours, I find A never-failing principle of joy And purest passion." Nevertheless, I have to give him credit for being one of the first English Romantic Poets who will lay the foundations for Byron, Shelley and Keats, and for trying to elevate his meditations towards great poetry. Although not one of my favorites, (I'm aware I'll make a bunch of detractors here), he surely earned the right to be read and re-read again and again. ---UPDATE ON APRIL 29TH---- Only for this article I'd give the book another star, interesting thoughts regarding poetry&science. Thanks Cristina for pointing this out. http://www.brainpickings.org/index.ph...

  3. 4 out of 5

    Tea

    Sorry, William Wordsworth fans. Poems or short stories? I know poems don’t have to rhythm (I attempt to write my own non- rhyming poetry on instagram [email protected]) but when you get several pages in it’s just feels like reading a story. Some of them just go on forever. I’m a big fan of poetry, but I just didn’t really feel Him. The lay out if this book is awful too like they were trying to save space they tried to squeeze as many short poems on to the page as they could often resulting in one v Sorry, William Wordsworth fans. Poems or short stories? I know poems don’t have to rhythm (I attempt to write my own non- rhyming poetry on instagram [email protected]) but when you get several pages in it’s just feels like reading a story. Some of them just go on forever. I’m a big fan of poetry, but I just didn’t really feel Him. The lay out if this book is awful too like they were trying to save space they tried to squeeze as many short poems on to the page as they could often resulting in one verse at the bottom bottom of the page and the other over in the other side.

  4. 5 out of 5

    Manny

    Conversation with Not while crossing Westminster Bridge earlier this afternoon: N: Let's get off this bridge and go somewhere where there aren't so many fucking tourists. Me: Hey! Remember Earth hath not anything to show more fair! [Pause] N: Than what?

  5. 5 out of 5

    Heidi'sbooks

    I read a selection of the poems found in this book. Isn't the cover gorgeous? I bought this Kindle version, but I wish I could have bought the book. Maybe I'll sneak out to Barnes and Noble sometime and try to find it. You know, I appreciate William Wordsworth much more now than I did in college. I never thought of Wordsworth as one of my favorite poets—I like Emily Dickinson and Frost plus others. But, I think he might move up a bit on my list of favorites. I like the rapturous emotion in his po I read a selection of the poems found in this book. Isn't the cover gorgeous? I bought this Kindle version, but I wish I could have bought the book. Maybe I'll sneak out to Barnes and Noble sometime and try to find it. You know, I appreciate William Wordsworth much more now than I did in college. I never thought of Wordsworth as one of my favorite poets—I like Emily Dickinson and Frost plus others. But, I think he might move up a bit on my list of favorites. I like the rapturous emotion in his poems, and I love his descriptive scenes of nature. I found lots of great quotes. His theme of the carefree nature of children and their enjoyment in nature was great. It was joyful to read, and that theme seemed to carry through many of his poems. His descriptions of the restrictive and dry nature of education was sad. Wordsworth said, “I have said that poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility." This quote reminds me of Lines Written in Early Spring “I hear a thousand blended notes,/While in a grove I sate reclined,/In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts/Bring sad thoughts to the mind.” He goes on to reflect “Have I not reason to lament/What man has made of man?” That seems like his most moody poem or most melancholy. And what about The Prelude when he came home for summer break after being away at Cambridge, “Those walks in all their freshness now came back Like a returning Spring. When first I made Once more the circuit of our little lake, If ever happiness hath lodged with man, That day consummate happiness was mine, Wide-spreading, steady, calm, contemplative. . . Gently did my soul Put off her veil, and, self-transmuted, stood Naked, as in the presence of her God.” I kept trying to figure out if Nature was his god or if he did bring God into it. He capitalized Nature as a Being almost. And sometimes I was sure he worshiped Nature and other times I thought he was just revitalized by it all. He does use the words Worship and Nature together. He says in Lines Composed a Few Miles Above Tintern Abbey: “We stood together; and that I, so long/A worshipper of Nature, hither came/ Unwearied in that service.” Then he says in The Prelude—“I am content/With my own modest pleasures, and have lived/With God and Nature communing.” And after reading a bit on the internet, I don't think experts agree. So, I surely don't know, but it seemed to me at first glance that he treated God and Nature equally. One thing for sure, he's definitely a Romantic Poet.

  6. 4 out of 5

    Pewterbreath

    Wordsworth is a guilty dislike for me. So many poets don't only like him but credit him with their very inspiration as to what poetry is and should be. Last summer I endeavored to make peace with Wordsworth once and for all. I skipped the juvenelia, and went straight for the "young" Wordsworth. My complaints I can find very quickly--many many poems about A man wandering unhappy, ill at ease, or at least lonely--he encounters daffodils/a leech gatherer/nature's primal majesty and whatever was bot Wordsworth is a guilty dislike for me. So many poets don't only like him but credit him with their very inspiration as to what poetry is and should be. Last summer I endeavored to make peace with Wordsworth once and for all. I skipped the juvenelia, and went straight for the "young" Wordsworth. My complaints I can find very quickly--many many poems about A man wandering unhappy, ill at ease, or at least lonely--he encounters daffodils/a leech gatherer/nature's primal majesty and whatever was bothering him (it's never mentioned, P thinks he was probably irritated that his sister didn't press his shirts right) evaporates away. I find Wordsworth extraordinarily earnest--and if you take any Romanticism class they will go on and on about how "going back to nature" is supposed to be the cure towards the "evils of society." The trouble is, I don't know if Wordsworth believed it. How many times did he see nature in his mind and not in reality? Also, the very fact that he wrote these poems, aren't they now mere memories and not the reality anymore? And also, if nature is the perfect balm why is he always wandering (I mean it doesn't sound as if the man is on his afternoon constitutional--he is endlessly wandering and searching.) Curiously, this take on him made him much more stomachable for me---I'm much more interested in people saying "What is this?" than "This is it!" Old Wordsworth is much less interesting--he gets preachy, moralistic, and becomes a voice for the old guard. But who can blame him--he long outlived his peers, and was finding himself struggling to be relevant in a new (extremely prosaic) age. I can say I can put my Wordsworth ambivalence to rest, and though I will never entirely like him, I can tip my hat in respect.

  7. 5 out of 5

    Jan-Maat

    Tintern Abbey Five years have past; five summers, with the length Of five long winters! and again I hear These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs With a sweet inland murmur.—Once again Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs, Which on a wild secluded scene impress Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect The landscape with the quiet of the sky. The day is come when I again repose Here, under this dark sycamore, and view These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts, Which, at t Tintern Abbey Five years have past; five summers, with the length Of five long winters! and again I hear These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs With a sweet inland murmur.—Once again Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs, Which on a wild secluded scene impress Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect The landscape with the quiet of the sky. The day is come when I again repose Here, under this dark sycamore, and view These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts, Which, at this season, with their unripe fruits, Among the woods and copses lose themselves, Nor, with their green and simple hue, disturb The wild green landscape. Once again I see These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines Of sportive wood run wild; these pastoral farms, Green to the very door; and wreathes of smoke Sent up, in silence, from among the trees, With some uncertain notice, as might seem, Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods, Or of some hermit's cave, where by his fire The hermit sits alone. Though absent long, These forms of beauty have not been to me, As is a landscape to a blind man's eye: But oft, in lonely rooms, and mid the din Of towns and cities, I have owed to them, In hours of weariness, sensations sweet, Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart, And passing even into my purer mind With tranquil restoration:—feelings too Of unremembered pleasure; such, perhaps, As may have had no trivial influence On that best portion of a good man's life; His little, nameless, unremembered acts Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust, To them I may have owed another gift, Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood, In which the burthen of the mystery, In which the heavy and the weary weight Of all this unintelligible world Is lighten'd:—that serene and blessed mood, In which the affections gently lead us on, Until, the breath of this corporeal frame, And even the motion of our human blood Almost suspended, we are laid asleep In body, and become a living soul: While with an eye made quiet by the power Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, We see into the life of things. If this Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oft, In darkness, and amid the many shapes Of joyless day-light; when the fretful stir Unprofitable, and the fever of the world, Have hung upon the beatings of my heart, How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee O sylvan Wye! Thou wanderer through the wood How often has my spirit turned to thee! And now, with gleams of half-extinguish'd though[t,] With many recognitions dim and faint, And somewhat of a sad perplexity, The picture of the mind revives again: While here I stand, not only with the sense Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts That in this moment there is life and food For future years. And so I dare to hope Though changed, no doubt, from what I was, when first I came among these hills; when like a roe I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams, Wherever nature led; more like a man Flying from something that he dreads, than one Who sought the thing he loved. For nature then (The coarser pleasures of my boyish days, And their glad animal movements all gone by,) To me was all in all.—I cannot paint What then I was. The sounding cataract Haunted me like a passion: the tall rock, The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, Their colours and their forms, were then to me An appetite: a feeling and a love, That had no need of a remoter charm, By thought supplied, or any interest Unborrowed from the eye.—That time is past, And all its aching joys are now no more, And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur; other gifts Have followed, for such loss, I would believe, Abundant recompence. For I have learned To look on nature, not as in the hour Of thoughtless youth, but hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity, Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power To chasten and subdue. And I have felt A presence that disturbs me with the joy Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime Of something far more deeply interfused, Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, And the round ocean, and the living air, And the blue sky, and in the mind of man, A motion and a spirit, that impels All thinking things, all objects of all thought, And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still A lover of the meadows and the woods, And mountains; and of all that we behold From this green earth; of all the mighty world Of eye and ear, both what they half-create, And what perceive; well pleased to recognize In nature and the language of the sense, The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse, The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul Of all my moral being. Nor, perchance, If I were not thus taught, should I the more Suffer my genial spirits to decay: For thou art with me, here, upon the banks Of this fair river; thou, my dearest Friend, My dear, dear Friend, and in thy voice I catch The language of my former heart, and read My former pleasures in the shooting lights Of thy wild eyes. Oh! yet a little while May I behold in thee what I was once, My dear, dear Sister! And this prayer I make, Knowing that Nature never did betray The heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege, Through all the years of this our life, to lead From joy to joy: for she can so inform The mind that is within us, so impress With quietness and beauty, and so feed With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues, Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all The dreary intercourse of daily life, Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb Our chearful faith that all which we behold Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon Shine on thee in thy solitary walk; And let the misty mountain winds be free To blow against thee: and in after years, When these wild ecstasies shall be matured Into a sober pleasure, when thy mind Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms, Thy memory be as a dwelling-place For all sweet sounds and harmonies; Oh! then, If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief, Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts Of tender joy wilt thou remember me, And these my exhortations! Nor, perchance, If I should be, where I no more can hear Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams Of past existence, wilt thou then forget That on the banks of this delightful stream We stood together; and that I, so long A worshipper of Nature, hither came, Unwearied in that service: rather say With warmer love, oh! with far deeper zeal Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget, That after many wanderings, many years Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs, And this green pastoral landscape, were to me More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake.

  8. 5 out of 5

    Christy

    Selected Poetry of William Wordsworth represents Wordsworth’s prolific output, from the poems first published in Lyrical Ballads in 1798 that changed the face of English poetry to the late “Yarrow Revisited.” Wordsworth’s poetry is celebrated for its deep feeling, its use of ordinary speech, the love of nature it expresses, and its representation of commonplace things and

  9. 4 out of 5

    Lizzytish

    Read this for my club, actually just an assortment of his poetry. I love nature, so I enjoyed his perspective. My favorite was " I Wandered Lonely As A Cloud" "And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils."

  10. 4 out of 5

    Winter Sophia Rose

    Touching, Timeless & Beautiful! One Of The Greatest Poets!

  11. 4 out of 5

    Whiskey

    Like several other romantic poets, William Wordsworth is a paradox. He aimed to celebrate the changeless things in nature and man. Yet, he writes with a strange boldness and originality that are bracing or unsettling depending upon how willingly we accept a new kind of poetry. If Wordsworth no longer startles moderns, it is because so many later poets have made his strategies familiar, especially his habit of philosophizing from natural emblems. Wordsworth embarked on his most creative period by Like several other romantic poets, William Wordsworth is a paradox. He aimed to celebrate the changeless things in nature and man. Yet, he writes with a strange boldness and originality that are bracing or unsettling depending upon how willingly we accept a new kind of poetry. If Wordsworth no longer startles moderns, it is because so many later poets have made his strategies familiar, especially his habit of philosophizing from natural emblems. Wordsworth embarked on his most creative period by trying to chasten and chastize 18C poetry, using a language of limpid, plate-glass purity freed from mannered artifice. Yet his own manner was so distinctive that he is among the most parodied poets. Wordsworth was born in Northwest England, the scenic Lake District he was to make famous. His mother died when he was 8 and his father died when he was 13, confirming what I believe is the profound effect on the sensitivity and imagination of children who are made vulnerable by the death of a parent. In his lifetime (1770-1850), despite the fact that he had not published, Wordsworth was considered, along with Byron, one of the two pivotal figures of English romanticism, Wordsworth once defied the imagination, which he considered the highest faculty of the creative mind, as something which "produces impressive effects out of simple elements." After spending time in the Alps and upon seeing London which he found a phantasmagoria and, the antithesis of the stable grandeur and dignity of his native hills, Wordsworth spent his life as a bachelor (after fathering a child with a Frenchwoman whom) Wordsworth and his beloved sister Dorothy moved in together, and she helped restore his mental health and remained with him to old age. The friendship between Wordsworth and Coleridge became one of the most fruitful in literary history. They conceived together both a new poetic style and a whole new rationale of what poetry should do. Poetry was to be an agency not of mere diversion but of profound truth in an imaginative union that would spiritually enlighten and heal. Wordsworth treated everyday subjects the medium would be an honest language really spoken by men, cleansed of unfunctional conventionality. Oddly, one of the things that obscures the purpose in many of Wordsworth poems is the very simplicity of the language; one of the hardest things in reading his works is to concentrate on the behavior of words that seem not to be doing anything special at all. The typical movement of Wordsworth's major works is the oscillation: between observation of the external scene and introspective analysis of feelings; between experiences and ideas they generate; between the remembered past and present circumstances; between a personal confession ("I") and universal truths ("we"). We need to keep this back-and-forth movement in mind when we call Wordsworth a nature poet. Though it is everywhere in his work, nature rarely appears simply for its own sake. Rather nature is a mythic emblem-of a mysterious, perhaps divine presence, of a dynamic of steady order in the universe, and especially of the development and experience of individuals. Moreover, nature can cut two ways. It is beauty. It is fear. Wordsworth is a poet of joy but also of the deepest anxiety. Wordsworth's subject is not ultimately nature but the psyche. Wordsworth substitutes imagination for religion for nature is Wordsworth's epic, the providential force leading him by dark ways to heroism which is the development of imaginative-truly human- power.

  12. 4 out of 5

    Jeremy

    My low rating is surely my fault, not Wordsworth's. I don't generally read poetry, at least from the Romantics onward, but I like to take a shot at the major classics. I read many of his most respected and popular poems. I had a hard time getting into the flow of his blank verse, and often didn't know what he was talking about. I did like a few of his poems, but for the most part I just didn't enjoy them.

  13. 4 out of 5

    Gunjan Sharma

    William Wordsworth is one of the greatest poets of nature. His every poem is interesting and attractive. I still remember his famous line 'Child is the father of man'. Though, there are many poets are contemporary to him but he topped in the list of romantic poets.

  14. 5 out of 5

    Jim

    I guess those who know a lot about poetry are more qualified than I am to declare much of Wordsworth's poetry to be rubbish. In my blessed ignorance I enjoyed pretty much all of it, and I recommend it to all but those who think they can do better.

  15. 4 out of 5

    Annalisa

    This book is good for any age. This book is full of many different poems mainly that use nature. I would use this in the classroom to show the elements of poetry.

  16. 4 out of 5

    Ash Connell-Gonzalez

    Much nature. Very Romantics.

  17. 5 out of 5

    mizzle

    Obviously good but not as good as Coleridge.

  18. 5 out of 5

    Vince

    Probably the sweetest guy you could meet in a youth hostel travelling around during your gap year.

  19. 5 out of 5

    Scott Gates

    “That men, least sensitive, see, hear, perceive And cannot choose but feel.” Yes, if you’re going to read Wordsworth you’re going to have to stomach stuff like the above. I read the entirety of the Prelude over the course of two years. At times I could not bear to read another stanza. To me, the poem veered wildly between passages of stunning beauty and clarity, longwinded lectures about politics, quaint discourses on “Man” and the “Ideal,” and a few others motifs. I could distill the situation of “That men, least sensitive, see, hear, perceive And cannot choose but feel.” Yes, if you’re going to read Wordsworth you’re going to have to stomach stuff like the above. I read the entirety of the Prelude over the course of two years. At times I could not bear to read another stanza. To me, the poem veered wildly between passages of stunning beauty and clarity, longwinded lectures about politics, quaint discourses on “Man” and the “Ideal,” and a few others motifs. I could distill the situation of the Prelude thus: When Wordsworth sticks to describing direct phenomena (i.e., when he’s writing as a painter, using mostly his eyes), the Prelude can be amazing; but when his opinions and, worse, his sentiments and feelings get involved, the poem can be very painful to read. And how wooden his personality is compared to, say, Blake or Keats! This is why the poem is at its best when Wordsworth chucks off his boring personage and loses it in the contemplation of “Nature.”

  20. 4 out of 5

    Dewey

    Anybody with the desire of looking at a sizeable fraction of the state of the English language's existence would be doing themselves a disservice by not reading William Wordsworth. I sincerely think that this guy was incapable of a poetic imperfection! Though intimidating at times (after all, when have a dozen ten-page poems not been intimidating?), the pleasure of reading one masterpiece after another eventually compensates. Plus, Wordsworth is the type of poet best understood when given time t Anybody with the desire of looking at a sizeable fraction of the state of the English language's existence would be doing themselves a disservice by not reading William Wordsworth. I sincerely think that this guy was incapable of a poetic imperfection! Though intimidating at times (after all, when have a dozen ten-page poems not been intimidating?), the pleasure of reading one masterpiece after another eventually compensates. Plus, Wordsworth is the type of poet best understood when given time to read slowly so as to come to a more profound understanding of what lies beneath. Aspiring poets in the English language should especially take heed of Wordsworth, as his importance in poetry closely matches (if not perfectly) Shakespeare's influence in playwriting (I'd say the same for slam poets: as some poems reveal, Wordsworth was a clever rhymer).

  21. 5 out of 5

    Nicholas

    I bought this when I was in a super romanticist phase a few years ago and while I've calmed down in that respect, Wordsworth can still make me emotional. I love the meaning and attention he gives to the smallest details of the world, including unspectacular people. I share a lot of his appreciation for nature, quiet, and childlike joys. His more melancholic poems are never very depressing, rather they rest on a kind of fundamental appreciation of the world. I have, however, yet to make it through I bought this when I was in a super romanticist phase a few years ago and while I've calmed down in that respect, Wordsworth can still make me emotional. I love the meaning and attention he gives to the smallest details of the world, including unspectacular people. I share a lot of his appreciation for nature, quiet, and childlike joys. His more melancholic poems are never very depressing, rather they rest on a kind of fundamental appreciation of the world. I have, however, yet to make it through the "Prelude", and I'm kind of glad he focused on other things instead of finishing an autobiographical philosophical poem about his entire life.

  22. 4 out of 5

    Andres

    Not much to say, his stylish writing and unique view of the main topics in life (love, hate, honor, etc) is just overwhelming. "She was a phantom of delight When first she gleamed upon my sight; A lovely Apparition, sent To be a moments ornament; Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair; Like Twilights, too, her dusky hair; But all things else about her drawn From Maytime and the cheerful Dawn A dancing Shape, an Image Gay, To haunt, to startle, and waylay" I suggest to read "Character of the Happy Warrior" Not much to say, his stylish writing and unique view of the main topics in life (love, hate, honor, etc) is just overwhelming. "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 Maytime and the cheerful Dawn A dancing Shape, an Image Gay, To haunt, to startle, and waylay" I suggest to read "Character of the Happy Warrior"

  23. 4 out of 5

    Although he's sometimes seen as ultra-conventional, ftmp, I think an appropriate musical analog to Wordsworth's work might be the music of Schubert, or, especially, Brahms— which I've continually found to be very cutting-edge just beneath the surface of pop accessibility. Wordsworth was audacious enough, for example, to write an epic conversation poem, the subject of which was his own mind ["The Prelude", his masterpiece— portions of which are not included in this edition, btw, which sucks sever Although he's sometimes seen as ultra-conventional, ftmp, I think an appropriate musical analog to Wordsworth's work might be the music of Schubert, or, especially, Brahms— which I've continually found to be very cutting-edge just beneath the surface of pop accessibility. Wordsworth was audacious enough, for example, to write an epic conversation poem, the subject of which was his own mind ["The Prelude", his masterpiece— portions of which are not included in this edition, btw, which sucks several buttholes].

  24. 4 out of 5

    Angela

    A notable writer, like Blake, from the British Romantic Period. I feel inept to properly review his work for what it is worth. It was a good read to discuss for class, because I was able to understand the pieces on a deeper level. He did help the movement to a more common language for prose and poetry. If the masses can not understand what is being written, why right? For that, I commend him.

  25. 4 out of 5

    Sammy

    One of my top dozen pre-WWII poets in the English language, alongside Shakespeare, Dryden, Keats, Emerson, Wadsworth Longfellow, Whitman, Dickinson, Tennyson, Christina Rossetti, Yeats, and Wallace Stevens.

  26. 5 out of 5

    Hayden

    I'm still not a huge fan of poetry but at least Wordsworth made it a bit more enjoyable than Pope. I loved The Ruined Cottage and The Brothers, however I did find some of the poems slightly repetitive (but I think that might be more of an issue with the collection rather than Wordsworth).

  27. 5 out of 5

    Steve

    Loved Composed upon Westminster Bridge, London 1802, Lines Written in Early Spring, The World is Too Much with Us. I didn't like Idiot Boy

  28. 4 out of 5

    Lisa

    He has quite a few lovely poems. One of my favorite is 'I wandered lonely as a cloud'.

  29. 4 out of 5

    Matt De Kam

    Wordsworth is one of my favorites. Daffodils is one of the best. The world is too much with us. My heart leaps up. etc, etc.

  30. 5 out of 5

    Jim Justice

    The poet is father to his verse.

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