By William Wordsworth
Chosen Poetry of William Wordsworth represents Wordsworth's prolific output, from the poems first released in Lyrical Ballads in 1798 that modified the face of English poetry to the overdue "Yarrow Revisited." Wordsworth's poetry is well known for its deep feeling, its use of normal speech, the affection of nature it expresses, and its illustration of common issues and occasions. As Matthew Arnold notes, "[Wordsworth's poetry] is excellent a result of outstanding energy with which [he] feels the enjoyment provided to us in nature, the enjoyment provided to us within the uncomplicated common affections and duties."
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Extra resources for Selected Poetry of William Wordsworth
An imaginary railing disappeared into the forest. It was here that the old gang used to gather and swap stories. It was like the Amazon, but on a much smaller scale. Afterwards, when some of us swept out into the world and could make comparisons, the fuss seemed justified. No two poets ever agreed on anything, and that amused us. It seemed good, the clotted darkness that came every day. 52 FROM C HINA TO PE RU I was taunted for wearing a dark woollen suit to the occasion, or “affair,” though most of the others were similarly dressed, including my tormentor.
As for music, my tastes run to Liszt’s Consolations, especially the flatter ones, though I’ve never been consoled by them. Well, once maybe. As for religion, it’s about going to hell, isn’t it? I read that 30 percent of Americans believe in hell, though only one percent thinks they’ll end up there, which says a lot about us, and about the other religions. Nobody believes in heaven. Hell is what gets them fired up. I’m probably the only American who thinks he’s going to heaven, though my reasons would be hard to explain.
Darlings, we’ll all be known for some detail, some nick in the chiseled brow, but it won’t weigh much in the scale’s careening pan. What others think 50 of us is the only thing that matters, to us and to them. You are stuffing squash blossoms with porcini mushrooms. I am somewhere else, alone as usual. I must get back to my elegy. 51 THE TE MPLATE was always there, its existence seldom questioned or suspected. The poets of the future would avoid it, as we had. An imaginary railing disappeared into the forest.