My Cart 
Login 

Previous

A Night-Piece
by
William Wordsworth


Next
 
The sky is overcast
With a continuous cloud of texture close,
Heavy and wan, all whitened by the Moon,
Which through that veil is indistinctly seen,
A dull, contracted circle, yielding light
So feebly spread, that not a shadow falls,
Chequering the ground—from rock, plant, tree, or tower.
At length a pleasant instantaneous gleam
Startles the pensive traveller while he treads
His lonesome path, with unobserving eye                        
Bent earthwards; he looks up—the clouds are split
Asunder,—and above his head he sees
The clear Moon, and the glory of the heavens.
There, in a black-blue vault she sails along,
Followed by multitudes of stars, that, small
And sharp, and bright, along the dark abyss
Drive as she drives: how fast they wheel away,
Yet vanish not!—the wind is in the tree,
But they are silent;—still they roll along
Immeasurably distant; and the vault,                           
Built round by those white clouds, enormous clouds,
Still deepens its unfathomable depth.
At length the Vision closes; and the mind,
Not undisturbed by the delight it feels,
Which slowly settles into peaceful calm,
Is left to muse upon the solemn scene.
 

This poem is in the public domain.

                                               
Purchase a framed print of this poem.

William Wordsworth (1770 - 1850) was a British Romantic poet. Though he suffered much tragedy in his personal life, he also enjoyed several deeply satisfying friendships, including ones with fellow poet Samuel Coleridge, and with his sister Dorothy, a writer in her own right. Wordsworth traveled extensively and was deeply influenced by his love of nature; both passions are evident in many of his poems. He lived much of his life in England’s beautiful Lake District, and served as Poet Laureate of England from 1843 until his death.


New comments are closed for now.
dotief@comcast.net:
Beautiful!
Posted 11/28/2012 10:07 AM
Larry Schug:
Many times I have pondered what we've given away when we became able to move our bodies at 80 miles per hour. Wordsworth and the Romantics (ooh, good name for a band) have shown us what we once had.
Posted 11/28/2012 08:32 AM


Contents of this web site and all original text and images therein are copyright © by Your Daily Poem. All rights reserved.
The material on this site may not be copied, reproduced, downloaded, distributed, transmitted, stored, altered, adapted,
or otherwise used in any way without the express written permission of the owner.