The poetical works of William Wordsworth ... In six volumes ... A new edition |
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![]() | II. |
![]() | III. |
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I. |
II. |
III. |
IV. |
V. |
VI. |
VII. |
VIII. |
IX. |
X. |
XI. |
XII. |
XIII. |
XIV. |
XV. |
XVI. |
XVII. |
XVIII. |
XIX. |
XX. |
XXI. |
XXII. |
XXIII. |
XXIV. |
![]() | XXV. |
XXVI. |
XXVII. |
XXVIII. |
XXIX. |
XXX. |
XXXI. |
XXXII. |
XXXIV. |
XXXV. |
XXXVI. |
XXXVII. |
XXXVIII. |
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![]() | IV. |
![]() | V. |
![]() | VI. |
![]() | The poetical works of William Wordsworth | ![]() |
“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.
But, for that moping Son of Idleness,
Why can he tarry yonder?—In our church-yard
Is neither epitaph nor monument,
Tombstone nor name—only the turf we tread
And a few natural graves.”
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.
But, for that moping Son of Idleness,
Why can he tarry yonder?—In our church-yard
Is neither epitaph nor monument,
Tombstone nor name—only the turf we tread
And a few natural graves.”
![]() | The poetical works of William Wordsworth | ![]() |