An evening walk poem. An Evening Walk, Addressed to a Young Lady by William Wordsworth 2019-03-09

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Evening Walk as the School Year Starts by Sydney Lea

an evening walk poem

Anon, appears a brave, a gorgeous show 0 Of horsemen-shadows moving to and fro; At intervals imperial banners stream, And now the van reflects the solar beam; The rear through iron brown betrays a sullen gleam. In these secluded vales, if village fame, Confirmed by hoary hairs, may claim; When up the hills, as now, retired the light, Strange apparitions mocked the shepherd's sight. Press the sad kiss, fond mother! Fair scenes, erewhile, I taught, a happy child, The echoes of your rocks my carols wild: The spirit sought not then, in cherished sadness, A cloudy substitute for failing gladness. Long may they float upon this flood serene; Theirs be these holms untrodden, still, and green, Where leafy shades fence off the blustering gale, And breathes in peace the lily of the vale! Wordsworth's masterpiece is generally considered to be The Prelude, an autobiographical poem of his early years which the poet revised and expanded a number of times. Each slip of lawn the broken rocks between Shines in the light with more than earthly green: Deep yellow beams the scattered stems illume, Far in the level forest's central gloom: Waving his hat, the shepherd, from the vale, Directs his winding dog the cliffs to scale,— The dog, loud barking, 'mid the glittering rocks, Hunts, where his master points, the intercepted flocks.

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An Evening Walk, Addressed To A Young Lady Poem by William Wordsworth

an evening walk poem

They were of the old magnificent species, bearing in beauty and majesty about the same relation to the Thames swan which that does to a goose. Even here, amid the sweep of endless woods, Blue pomp of lakes, high cliffs and falling floods, Not undelightful are the simplest charms, Found by the grassy door of mountain-farms. An Evening Walk, 1793, ll. Long may they float upon this flood serene; Theirs be these holms untrodden, still, and green, Where leafy shades fence off the blustering gale, And breathes in peace the lily of the vale! Some hear yon not their chisels' clinking sound? Lea served as editor for thirteen years. The , who ceased, with fading light, to thread Silent the hedge or steamy rivulet's bed, From his grey re-appearing tower shall soon Salute with gladsome note the rising moon, While with a hoary light she frosts the ground, And pours a deeper blue to Æther's bound; Pleased, as she moves, her pomp of clouds to fold In robes of azure, fleecy-white, and gold. Although first finished in 1805, The Prelude was never published in Wordsworth's lifetime.

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An Evening Walk

an evening walk poem

Some hear yon not their chisels' clinking sound? Upon second thought, I will mention another image: And fronting the bright west, yon oak tree entwines Its darkening boughs and leaves in stronger lines. I could not have been at that time above fourteen years of age. Curwen introduced a little fleet of those birds, but of the inferior species, to the lake of Windermere. Sweetly ferocious, round his native walks, Pride of his sister-wives, the monarch stalks; Spur-clad his nervous feet, and firm his tread; A crest of purple tops the warrior's head. The lady's belly comes up to her nose. An Evening Walk, by William Wordsworth, ed.

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The Evening Walk

an evening walk poem

While tender cares and mild domestic loves With furtive watch pursue her as she moves, The female with a meeker charm succeeds, And her brown little-ones around her leads, Nibbling the water lilies as they pass, Or playing wanton with the floating grass. Sweet are the sounds that mingle from afar, Heard by calm lakes, as peeps the folding star, Where the duck dabbles 'mid the rustling sedge, And feeding pike starts from the water's edge, Or the swan stirs the reeds, his neck and bill Wetting, that drip upon the water still; And heron, as resounds the trodden shore, Shoots upward, darting his long neck before. Where we, my Friend, to happy days shall rise, Till our small share of hardly-paining sighs For sighs will ever trouble human breath Creep hushed into the tranquil breast of death. Light Of some other evening strolling ahead, Long-ago evening of silk dresses, Bare feet, hair unpinned and falling. You blush with rage and shame and not in general either– this impotent grief is all yours. I could not have been at that time above fourteen years of age. The song of mountain-streams, unheard by day, Now hardly heard, beguiles my homeward way.

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An Evening Walk

an evening walk poem

Thence issuing often with unwieldy stalk, They crush with broad black feet their flowery walk; Or, from the neighbouring water, hear at morn The hound, the horse's tread, and mellow horn; Involve their serpent-necks in changeful rings, Rolled wantonly between their slippery wings, Or, starting up with noise and rude delight, Force half upon the wave their cumbrous flight. Thus Hope, first pouring from her blessed horn Her dawn, far lovelier than the moon's own morn, 'Till higher mounted, strives in vain to cheer The weary hills, impervious, blackening near; Yet does she still, undaunted, throw the while On darling spots remote her tempting smile. Refik the typesetter and the milkman Yorgi's middle daughter have gone out for an evening stroll, their fingers locked. While, near the midway cliff, the silvered kite In many a whistling circle wheels her flight; Slant watery lights, from parting clouds, apace Travel along the precipice's base; Cheering its naked waste of scattered stone, By lichens grey, and scanty moss, o'ergrown; Where scarce the foxgove peeps, or thistle's beard; And restless stone-chat, all day long, is heard. Sweet are the sounds that mingle from afar, Heard by calm lakes, as peeps the folding star, 280 Where the duck dabbles 'mid the rustling sedge, And feeding pike starts from the water's edge, Or the swan stirs the reeds, his neck and bill Wetting, that drip upon the water still; And heron, as resounds the trodden shore, Shoots upward, darting his long neck before. Bright sparks his black and rolling eye-ball hurls Afar, his tail he closes and unfurls; On tiptoe reared, he strains his clarion throat, Threatened by faintly-answering farms remote: Again with his shrill voice the mountain rings, While, flapped with conscious pride, resound his wings.

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poetry: Wordsworth: “An Evening Walk” (1793)

an evening walk poem

Bright sparks his black and rolling eye-ball hurls 150 Afar, his tail he closes and unfurls; On tiptoe reared, he strains his clarion throat, Threatened by faintly-answering farms remote: Again with his shrill voice the mountain rings, While, flapped with conscious pride, resound his wings. Toil, small as pigmies in the gulf profound; Some, dim between the lofty cliffs descried, O'erwalk the slender plank from side to side; These, by the pale-blue rocks that ceaseless ring, In airy baskets hanging, work and sing. While I was a school-boy, the late Mr Curwen introduced a little fleet of these birds, but of the inferior species, to the lake of Windermere. Cool evening air kicks in as it drifts from the west and flows through my hair. Each slip of lawn the broken rocks between Shines in the light with more than earthly green: Deep yellow beams the scattered stems illume, 180 Far in the level forest's central gloom: Waving his hat, the shepherd, from the vale, Directs his winding dog the cliffs to scale,-- The dog, loud barking, 'mid the glittering rocks, Hunts, where his master points, the intercepted flocks. The of the swans, that follows, was from the opportunities I had of their habits, not as to the gentleman's park, but in a of nature.

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An Evening Walk poem

an evening walk poem

He is familiar with this place. Seriously, his writing is beautiful, and there is a way of reading it, somewhere between cognizance of meaning and hypnotic sleep, in which it makes sense to the soul. In these secluded vales, if village fame, Confirmed by hoary hairs, belief may claim; When up the hills, as now, retired the light, Strange apparitions mocked the shepherd's sight. The grocer Karabet's lights are on. Where oaks o'erhang the road the radiance shoots On tawny earth, wild weeds, and twisted roots; The druid-stones a brightened ring unfold; And all the babbling brooks are liquid gold; Sunk to a curve, the day-star lessens still, Gives one bright glance, and drops behind the hill.


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The Evening Walk

an evening walk poem

She, in a mother's care, her beauty's pride Forgetting, calls the wearied to her side; Alternately they mount her back, and rest Close by her mantling wings' embraces prest. To show what pleasures yet to me remain, Say, will my Friend, with unreluctant ear, The of a poet's evening hear? Happy heart, what heavy steps you take As you follow after them in the shadows. It discusses the element of surprise in his poetry and examines the epiphany model of literature. They shake their heads, subtle. How old must he be? The song of mountain-streams, unheard by day, Now hardly heard, beguiles my homeward way.

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An Evening Walk by William Wordsworth

an evening walk poem

The rhythms are too repetitive, and the rhymes can often be anticipated, which gives the impression that the reasoning is trite. The moment was important in my poetical history; for I date from it my consciousness of the infinite variety of natural appearances which had been unnoticed by the poets of any age or country, so far as I was acquainted with them; and I made a resolution to supply in some degree the deficiency. Air listens, like the sleeping water, still, To catch the spiritual music of the hill, Broke only by the slow clock tolling deep, Or shout that wakes the ferry-man from sleep, The echoed hoof nearing the distant shore, The boat's first motion—made with dashing oar; Sound of closed gate, across the water borne, Hurrying the timid hare through rustling corn; The sportive outcry of the mocking owl; And at long intervals the mill-dog's howl; The distant forge's swinging thump profound; Or yell, in the deep woods, of lonely hound. A raven, unsubtle, grates from a hemlock as Carl steps into sight. Lost children in the darkening woods. Now, with religious awe, the farewell light Blends with the solemn colouring of night; 'Mid groves of clouds that crest the mountain's brow, And round the west's proud lodge their shadows throw, 290 Like Una shining on her gloomy way, The half-seen form of Twilight roams astray; Shedding, through paly loop-holes mild and small, Gleams that upon the lake's still bosom fall; Soft o'er the surface creep those lustres pale Tracking the motions of the fitful gale. Where we, my Friend, to happy days shall rise, Till our small share of hardly-paining sighs For sighs will ever trouble human breath Creep hushed into the tranquil breast of death.

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An Evening Walk,: 1793 by William Wordsworth

an evening walk poem

I was a schoolboy, the late Mr. Sweet are the sounds that mingle from afar, Heard by calm lakes, as peeps the folding star, Where the duck dabbles 'mid the rustling sedge, And feeding pike starts from the water's edge, Or the swan stirs the reeds, his neck and bill Wetting, that drip upon the water still; And heron, as resounds the trodden shore, Shoots upward, darting his long neck before. Where, mixed with graceful birch, the sombrous pine And yew-tree o'er the silver rocks recline; I love to mark the quarry's moving trains, Dwarf panniered steeds, and men, and numerous wains; How busy all the enormous hive within, While Echo dallies with its various din! But now the clear bright Moon her zenith gains, And, rimy without speck, extend the plains: The deepest cleft the mountain's front displays Scarce hides a shadow from her searching rays; From the dark-blue faint silvery threads divide The hills, while gleams below the azure tide; Time softly treads; throughout the landscape breathes A peace enlivened, not disturbed, by wreaths Of charcoal-smoke, that o'er the fallen wood, Steal down the hill, and spread along the flood. Anon, appears a brave, a gorgeous show Of horsemen-shadows moving to and fro; At intervals imperial banners stream, And now the van reflects the solar beam; The rear through iron brown betrays a sullen gleam. One of a series of poems Wordsworth wrote about Lucy, an English girl who died young, its brevity gives it much of its gravity: just three stanzas long, its story is over almost as soon as it starts.

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