Je n’ai jamais rien lu de Wordsworth, le poète
Dont parle lord Byron d’un ton si plein de fiel,
Qu’un seul vers ; le voici, car je l’ai dans la tête :
— Clochers silencieux montrant du doigt le ciel. —
Il servait d’épigraphe, et c’était bien étrange,
Au chapitre premier d’un roman : — Louisa, —
Les douleurs d’une fille, œuvre toute de...
The grass hung wet on Rydal banks,
The golden day with pearls adorning,
When side by side with him we walked
To meet midway the summer morning.
The west wind took a softer breath,
The sun himself seemed brighter shining,
As through the porch the minstrel stepped,
His eye sweet Nature’s look enshrining.
He passed along the dewy...
By B. R. Haydon
WORDSWORTH upon Helvellyn! Let the cloud
Ebb audibly along the mountain-wind,
Then break against the rock, and show behind
The lowland valleys floating up to crowd
The sense with beauty. He, with forehead bowed
And humble-lidded eyes, as one inclined
Before the sovran thought of his own mind,
And very meek with...
Poet who sleepest by this wandering wave!
When thou wast born, what birth-gift hadst thou then?
To thee what wealth was that the Immortals gave,
The wealth thou gavest in thy turn to men?
Not Milton’s keen, translunar music thine;
Not Shakespeare’s cloudless, boundless human view;
Not Shelley’s flush of rose on peaks divine;
Nor...
