#wordsworth
You’re dazzling, Daisy!
No wonder Wordsworth called you:
The Poet’s darling.
~ Poetictouch
May 10
May 10, 2026 at 1:44 AM UTC
On misty moons, I wander free,
Escaping life's cacophony,
The world's too loud—a fading sound,
As nature's peace enfolds me round.
All alone, my spirit grows strong,
Visions of a hidden world beyond;
Shadows of the past still linger near,
And now, my soul will find me here.
For in this land, I'm never alone,
Nature's heartbeat echoes my own.
Let me dwell here, where wisdom flows,
With a world of wonder that grows and grows.
Mar 27, 2025
Mar 27, 2025 at 10:16 PM UTC
...don't look at me.
(sonnet #MMMMMMMMMCCXIII)
Too many years ago the talk to scale
Of "cell phones" owned but Blackb'rrys for intents,
And was a dream of yonder not all thence
Could realize, where the "cold war" swore the trail
To any future would be sans aught bail
'Cept freedom was derailed, the "commies" hence
Keen spies who'd access to our land lines, whence
The talk was of which speeches to avail?
They killed off Kenn'dy cuz he swore in tour
To tell us all, yea, ****** McCarthy too.
But that was 'fore my time. Now all that's poor,
I'll post online, to find me barred sans cue
Cuz wherefore, eh? Go "clear yer cache"?! We were
Such fools to cast off fears. LORD, I'll wait You.
15Mar25c
Mar 19, 2025
Mar 19, 2025 at 3:25 PM UTC
In the middle of the journey of your life
you had wandered from the straight path.
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood
and you took both of them.
You broke on through to the other side
but came back stateside pretty often.
Being lied about, you stopped lying.
From men and women you could sometimes require
the lineaments of gratified desire.
Clouds may wander, lonely,
but you’re pretty good at finding company.
Apr 28, 2024
Apr 28, 2024 at 2:28 AM UTC
🥀There is a comfort in the strength of love;twill make a thing endurable, which else would overset the brain ,or Break the heart".🥀
Few Lines from A Master piece
🥀William Wordsworth🥀
🥀_Shilhamadhuri_🥀
Apr 22, 2022
Apr 22, 2022 at 1:09 PM UTC
Lawrence Hall
[email protected]
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Every Poem is a Translation
Wordsworth considered his rainbow up on high
And what he saw and felt through it, he wrote -
Translating an arc of refracted light
Into a transcendent vision of life
But his considerations through paper and ink
Are but darkness and silence without readers
Because the rainbow needs our vision, our joy
Without which there is no rainbow at all
We open the book, the page, the words, the light
To find the rainbow that he wrote to us
Apr 8, 2021
Apr 8, 2021 at 2:50 PM UTC
"Let me in?" I asked
She said, "Could you please go back"
Gave her my hand,
But she let it fall.
I picked it back up
But she was already gone;
I watched her walk away,
Smiling at the Sun
And I melted.
She was in the rain,
She was in the grass,
And I couldn't help but smile
When I saw her laugh.
I wanted people to see what I saw
Because it's better to be held
Than holding on
To nothing, nothing at all
She wanted to be by herself
And I swear I understood
Alone, but not lonely
But what about me?
Why couldn't she understand
That she was too good
For this world and its people
And to just stay hidden
She pushed me away
I couldn't be with her
But I watched and I smiled
So imagine the others
How would they see what I saw?
Now she's gone
And I remember everything
Every moment, every smile,
Every crinkle of her eyes
I'm not fine
She left without a word
And no one seems to know
But me and a few others
She was too good
For this world
She was too good to just
Sit in her world
I wanted her to be loved
The way I love her
And now I'm not fine
Because all I can do is remember.
She wanted to be by herself
Just her in her innocent world
And I swear I understood
She was alone, not lonely
But what about me?
Apr 1, 2021
Apr 1, 2021 at 6:46 AM UTC
Like sprightly spring and autumn's boredom
We are two lovers, different from another
Cold as cold is, the old man holds a sneeze in
With war around, vulnerable people wash their sins
A snowflake sits on the roof, melting overhead
The sun shimmering, as cleansing as an ablution
Underneath two crystal gazers cover the grass
Warmth to warmth, ashen leaves and stalk
Thistle to thicket, the birch covers the sun, a gas giant
Her eyes encompass all as eagles perched atop everyone
Grey with age, blue, gelid like ice, looking for some silver
The mountains echo her eternal reflection that disturb the conifers
Dec 1, 2020
Dec 1, 2020 at 4:28 PM UTC
O! I went to the loo to do a number
two
Only one cubicle was vacant, the rest
they were all taken
"Looks like a full house today" I
thought to myself
Man! I was bustin' to go
As I sat there on my throne in my
cockpit all alone
There came this funny rumbling
sound from down below
And then, this fearsome volley.... a
fantastic farting
And then, a great release
As finally I dropped my bombs with
studious aplomb
O! what a relief !
"Man! ", I said to myself, " I must
lay off that Aloe Vera juice
That stuff it goes right through you "
But then, something strange, from the
cubicle right next to me
Came this other big thunderous ****
explosion
A big fat blubbery balloony one
It sounded like a tuba gone wrong
And then! And then, another one! this
one further down the line
This time a big bubble and squeaky
one
And then! yet another! a funny little
flute-ey one
Like it just squirreled out in the nick
of time
And then finally, another!!! a big Big
Bellow like from some wonky
trumpet
A real rasper, he must have thought he
was doin' the solo
Man! It was so funny, one right after
the other, you had to laugh
It was.... well, it was Gas !!!
Lucky no one struck a match
Or else it might have been... yea!
Jumpin' Jack Flash !!!
It was like listening to a whole scale of
*** notes
Such a strange symphony, these
wondrous excursions in Sound
For a moment there, it reminded me a
bit of Beethoven,
It was no celestial choir that's for sure
It was something altogether more dire,
Like something you'd hear in a
farmyard byre
The animals all gathered at the trough
It was like all the bottoms were
conversing with one another,
having a chat
Plotting a rebellion even, an uprising,
a coup d'etat
Against that other much more
celebrated Opening
That much vaunted Hole in the Face,
the Mouth!
That puffed up preening Prima Donna
with his preposterous outpourings
His Monstrous, pompous inflated Self-
importance
Sitting up there stuffing himself and
forever spouting nonsense
"Sure, we do all the work down here",
the Bottoms were saying, " and we
talk a lot more sense as well"
They posed the question "Can a Bottom speak more Truth than a
Mouth ?"
These defiant derrieres, these proud
posteriors
With their proud exultations
Sticking a firm two fingers up at that so-called world of respectability up
there
That world of petrified good manners
Suffocating! Oppressing! with its
stifling mores and traditions
Yea!....for sure, the rebel Masses, they
were just a bunch of Bad *****
O! the air it was blue just like Pepe Le
Pew
I could have sworn I seen a big blue
gaseous cloud ascending
Heading up toward the ceiling
Like a great Cloud of Unknowing
except with a bit more foreboding
Reminded me of William Wordsworth
& his lonely cloud a-wandering
But then I thought, did Wordsworth,
Shelley or Keats ever write
An Ode to His **** ?
Was it too dark a side to show, too
dark a place to go
The Dark Side of the Back Side
The Dark Side... of the Moon.
Pepe! Pepe Le Pew, that old Don Juan,
Casanova of the old cartoons
It was then, my Love, it was then I
thought of you
I smiled and said to myself"I know
what I'll do
I'll blow out another sweet blue
raspberry one just for you....
Oh yea!....that one was lovely, that one
was true
I think that one had your name
written on it
O! I do".
And now as Pepe might say " Adieu! adieu!.....Sweet, sweet Adieu! ".
Ende
Aug 8, 2019
Aug 8, 2019 at 5:20 PM UTC
Eck Ramsay, a retired underwire manufacturer,
bought a boil in the bag cod slice at his local Spar shop.
Upon removal of its cardboard outer garments
he was surprised to find it contained a small book.
The book titled the Plaice of Cod
(a philosophical treatise on theology)
contained many essays on the ancient rites of summer,
several of which were wildly inaccurate
and a few that were accurately wild.
In the appendix there were twenty-three songs
attributed to a medieval troubadour,
who led a travelling medicine show called the Rollwrong Stones.
William Lancaster Blake built himself a chocolate castle
on a hollow hill and sold it to his mate Bill,
a scribbler of worthy words who wrote of the hills and lakes
and how long it takes for the ghosts of soldiers to cross the fells especially when led by centaurs.
Self-proclaimed king, My Other Pen drags on,
took to haranguing passers-by with tales of dancing seals
and Jewish fiddlers who wouldn’t play marriages on the Sabbath, and how the wedding guests always got ******
Stan Tony and Drew made up the crew
which some say numbered sixty-nine
or seventy-two, but no-one could swear
how many were there especially
on the Whispering Nights……… when nothing seemed right
and the cattle lowed on their knees.
And the slightest breeze on a pewter plate
would vanish the seed that couldn’t be seen,
and dreamers would dream
of jumping through flames
that carried the names
of those who were soon to be dead.
Goats head soup
with yarrow root
was served to the guests …..whose favourite request
was Wort of Sacred Johnny,
they'd dance all night …..till the Isis light
sent the Oak root bones …..scurrying home
to the place where the days are shorter.
When the dew on the grass …..comes to pass
and the herbs have been nailed to the doorway,
when the heron's been kissed…and all are well dressed
and the False ones only moved slightly
the cuckoos will sing. "a new day I bring"
and the treetops will shake with the dancers
the day is but done and the Knights just begun
to get a little bit longer.
But stranger than this was the wish of the dish that had it away with the spoon. "hey.. kat play that fiddle"
And riddle me no riddle
I need to get high as the moon….
"which moon?" enquired the hare "Kieth or the very Reverent moon?"
"Oh either will do…. Their just different shoes
to the ones I'm currently wearing"
and with no more ado…… Stan Tony and Drew
the Stones roadie crew
withdrew
for the next seven years
their horses drank tears
and everyone's fears
were fried up for breakfast
with marmalade toast
two sausage
mushrooms
and beans
eggs over easy
rashers done crispy
a fried slice or two
and a teapot of glue
to ensure it stuck to the belly.
The mushrooms of course enjoyed these proceedings to such an extent that they were inspired to compose poems praising the nights adventures, these were subsequently published in the society pages of the Lost and Found trade journal.
Jun 6, 2019
Jun 6, 2019 at 12:41 PM UTC
Ya.
(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCXLVII)
Blue heavns with clouds as fiberfill gone stale
Jist floating lazly in morn's vague suspense,
Where coffee scents the air with half a sense
Of yonder whilst mine owly eyes in pale
Excuse take note of aught reply t'avail
As wont, sans words to roll oer fer intents
My tongue, and silence shifts as twere from hence
Without a voice as I leave that detail.
So later, from the kichen window fer
Mair than whatever, watch a wolf chase to
Effect some shapeless form, which as it were
Is caught just as his mouth decays in blue
Seas no, erm, Jolly Roger haunts in tour,
And wonder if that signifies aught too.
05Mar19a
Mar 9, 2019
Mar 9, 2019 at 9:58 PM UTC
It is in the woods
In the world
That i may find peace
Whether resting on the banks of despair
Or wandering through a thicket of feeling
I come to find
Deep seclusion
That grants me thought
And while i may take pause
It is then
And then alone
That i am
Truly at peace
All this world has beauty
And it is i who finds
Great these scenes
*
I can feel it all within me
My blood courses through my veins
Akin the coursing river i pass by
It is not easy to acknowledge
But i often grant no thought
To the world around
Blind i am
And blind i remain
But in this world i am given
Tranquil restoration
*
Until i am dead and gone
No more flesh
No more bone
I will contemplate this world
These mountains
And rivers
Trees
And cliffs
For the great care that has been given it
Will be continued through me
And when i am but a soul
A spirit
Drifting
My harmony with the world
And serenity will
Carry on
*
But oh
Death
I deny it me
It cannot steal me
From my pleasure
I bask in creation
And all around me
The earth shakes with shivers
I know all too well
Until my thoughts are thoughts no more
I will hope the future
Will ask for me
*
I thirst
I thirst for what i do not know
What i cannot see
And what my eyes have recognized but my heart has not
The nature i lose myself in has caused me
To lose myself
I know not what i be
Or what i’ll be
But the times past are no more
And i weep for them
*
As a man i am curious
What lies beyond
The cries of fallen brethren
The sad harmonies that the animals we’ve displaced
Escape their bodies
They mourn
And so do i
I am
Compelled
To tell their stories
To sing their songs
In a major key
*
I am a slave to it
The world i’ve ignored
I need not the society
I abandoned up the road
Nature has stolen my heart
My thoughts
My life
My me
*
I catch a glimpse
Of who i was
The things i once found true
And i shudder
For mother nature was not
And is not greedy
She cares for her children
In ways i could never understand
It brings her joy to raise life up
And we deny her that
Day after day
Yet still
She smiles
*
We walked this together
You and i
Recalling that once our mother would be there
Waiting
Calling
But now
It is only me
I am alone
And i wander
With sorrowful thoughts
And despairing diction
With a mother who is not mine
Mother nature
Who welcomes me
And embraces me
Yet still
I am alone
The moon highlights my path
And where there were once two sets
Of footsteps
It is now only one
The ghost of you --
Dear sister --
Trailing further and further
Away
Feb 19, 2019
Feb 19, 2019 at 11:58 AM UTC
What are your words worth
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Well thank God I am at last set free
Trapped within these pages so dog-eared
I began to think that no one wanted me.
The top shelf of a thrift shop was my goal
To be pulped at the recycle yard my fate
But “Glory , Hallelujah “ two dollars paid
This liberator took me home n read aloud.
“I wandered lonely as a cloud”
“ That floats on high o’er vales and hills “
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Written by Philip November 18th 2018.
Poetry of Wordsworth Published 1807.
Nov 18, 2018
Nov 18, 2018 at 8:20 AM UTC
I feel Clare,
Like a seed,
Planted from birth.
Who blossoms in Spring,
Then dies in Winter,
A kind girl,
***** blond hair,
With ready smile,
I hold her hand,
As she fades away.
Mar 31, 2018
Mar 31, 2018 at 4:01 PM UTC
...that is invisible.
(sonnet #MMMMMMXII)
So...we'll feign's not sae bitter as snow thence
Is gone with yesterday and skies t'avail
Are softly blue, like April waltzes, hale
Green nubbins of both tulips and ah hence
What Wordsworth knew as jonquils was't? now fence
These warmly golden hours with hopes' detail.
For daffodils' bright yellow shall soon hail
Again and purple violets wink fr'intents.
I do not long for summer's heat girls stir
Blog posts and comment for, because they do.
Yet O! to wander in the shadows fer
Sweet ****** white-and-purple violets dew
Half lingers on in silver droplets were
What I could gasp to own 'til I see You.
14Mar13a
Mar 17, 2018
Mar 17, 2018 at 8:41 PM UTC
No, we certainly shall not.
(sonnet #MMMMMMCCCCLXXXVII)
O Wordsworth! La, but how his spirit's hale
Pride sifts anon twixt every stanza, whence
My soul congeals, as left like bones from hence
To dry and bleach in heavn's bald eye; joys fail
Whileas he waxes eloquent, to hail
Aught note of twinkling life with that cold sense
Which calculates the breath out of all thence
Caught in his lines, til I can't breathe t'avail.
He takes up passion like's unknown as twere,
Despite the fact he is just that, yet to
A fault upon a bloodless scale, who'd stir
The whitened ashes of aught fire to do
It up as if's a specimen: dead. Poor
As all that, he extolled much...sans life's dew.
10Jul17a
Jul 12, 2017
Jul 12, 2017 at 8:31 PM UTC
We sped along the highway,
Faster than two hundred year old clouds;
All at once a yellow blur of sunflowers
Filled the only view we had.
Fields and fields of sunflowers
Facing the south sun like a choir;
And ready for harvest.
Denise remarked she liked the seeds,
And the oil is good for pharmaceuticals, etc.
We use them a lot, I quipped.
But we were in a rush to see
Stratford's As You Like It,
So they never got a second thought.
Til now, you see,
For I'm feeling somewhat vacant.
Oct 6, 2016
Oct 6, 2016 at 7:06 AM UTC
BEHOLD her, single in the field,
Yon solitary Highland Lass!
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here, or gently pass!
Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain;
O listen! for the Vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.
No Nightingale did ever chaunt
More welcome notes to weary bands
Of travellers in some shady haunt,
Among Arabian sands:
A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard
In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.
Will no one tell me what she sings?—
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago:
Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day?
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again?
Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o'er the sickle bending;—
I listen'd, motionless and still;
And, as I mounted up the hill,
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.
--------------------------------- This poem inspired my poem >>>
I Never Know
(Inspired by ‘Another Solitary Reaper’ by Wordsworth)
I never know if, out of sight
Another stands by in delight
Listening to my melody
Intended just for me
If I sing in the open air
And only birds can hear me there
I wonder what response they have
I know they cannot clap
‘Tis very well they hear!
Though we can see no ears
I could be wrong but
I doubt that they enjoy our song
We think we are alone a lot
When we are not
Assumptions made are wrong
About who listens to our songs
Sean Hunt May 11th 2016
(Inspired by ‘Another Solitary Reaper’ by Wordsworth)
I visited Wordsworth Trust in Grasmere this morning. They have established a poetry blog and are inviting poems from the public for consideration. They are selecting some for publication on their website. They are specifically asking people to read 'The Solitary Reaper' by Wordsworth and write a poem inspired by his poem. So this is my effort. If anyone wishes to do the same you could publish the poem here and then contact Simon Davies at Wordsworth Trust by email or send a link to your poem on Hello Poetry. I think I will try the latter. Simon's email address is: [email protected].
My idea worked well; I copied the Hello Poetry url link and pasted it in my comment on the Wordsworth comments page.........i.e
thoughts on “Another Solitary Reaper”
https://wordsworth.org.uk/blog/2016/05/04/another-solitary-reaper/
Sean Hunt
11TH MAY 2016 AT 5:31 PM
Your comment is awaiting moderation.
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1648554/i-never-know/
I wrote a poem inspired by this Wordsworth poem and I uploaded it to a web poetry site (link above). What struck me about the poem was not the actual imagined idyllic experience of a surprised eavesdropping walker, listening to a well-sung song, it was for me, the non-awareness of the singer that she was being listened to and enjoyed; I found this to be the most interesting aspect of the described scene. Thank you for the encouragement to read this poem and be inspired by it Simon _/\_
REPLY
#wordsworth
May 11, 2016
May 11, 2016 at 12:42 PM UTC
(Inspired by ‘Another Solitary Reaper’ by Wordsworth)
I never know if, out of sight
Another stands by in delight
Listening to my melody
Intended just for me
If I sing in the open air
And only birds can hear me there
I wonder what response they have
I know they cannot clap
‘Tis very well they hear
Though we can see no ears
I could be wrong but
I doubt they enjoy our song
We think we are alone a lot
When we are not
Assumptions made are wrong
About who listens to our songs
Sean Hunt May 11th 2016
May 11, 2016
May 11, 2016 at 12:26 PM UTC
She dwelt within the dripping wood,
Beneath a drooping sky:
A boon for Evil, a bane for Good,
The harlot had to die.
She didn't drown, but should have drown
For her own Soul's dear sake,
When trialled by the nearby town
That burned her at the stake.
O.O
Oct 17, 2015
Oct 17, 2015 at 7:29 PM UTC
“Poor Harry Gill” I will say never,
Yet what a fate befell that wight:
For dead and buried long, still ever
He shivers morning, day, and night.
And so long chattered all his teeth
That not a tooth his sad mouth owns:
Pass by his plot and hear beneath
The clattering of frigid bones!
O.O
Oct 14, 2015
Oct 14, 2015 at 1:20 PM UTC
Wordsworth of this generation?
They want attention, fame not transformation.
Jun 9, 2015
Jun 9, 2015 at 4:22 AM UTC
Amidst the crowded globe there lies,
a pasture seen by the most common eyes.
There, glorious edibles are ripe;
and Eve's nectar we all delight.
Desire sends us searching for where it lies,
but vain when seeking pries.
Little words are worth
the emotion collected in tranquility.
At the gate of the orange groves,
the momentary event embraces me.
Fat hugs. Squeeze. Let go.
Apr 21, 2015
Apr 21, 2015 at 12:03 AM UTC
The Rainbow
‘My heart leaps up when I behold’
‘A rainbow in the sky’
Filled with seven colours, the story untold,
Hanging there still, so high,
‘So was it when my life began,’
‘So is it’ now I am insane,
‘So it be’ when I shall grow demon
‘Or let me die’ in my insanity, my venom.
‘The child is the father of man’
And how could I wish my days to be
‘Bond by each to each in natural piety,’
If I could not check my desires,
When I could not hold to the truth
That every father is the child’s prey!
Alok Mishra
Oct 26, 2014
Oct 26, 2014 at 10:57 PM UTC
I may not be Walt Whitman or William Wordsworth or Robert Frost. But I am human and just as Whitman and Wordsworth and Frost wrote, so too can I write.
So too can I share with strangers words that express my humanness because even if I'm not famous, I feel, I see, I hear, I simply exist.
Isn't that what poetry does?
Reminds us that we all experience this world similarly,
We all grieve,
We all seek,
We all love,
We all want,
We all cry,
We all wonder,
We all simply exist.
And that is enough for me to write, for you to write, and even if we don't get recognition,
It's about conveying this notion of existing.
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 1:38 AM UTC