The World Is Too Much With Us

BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

The world is too much with us; late and soon,

Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;—
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not. Great God! I’d rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.

Angrily, the speaker accuses the modern age of having lost its connection to nature
and to everything meaningful: “Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: / Little
we see in Nature that is ours; / We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!” He
says that even when the sea “bares her bosom to the moon” and the winds howl,
humanity is still out of tune, and looks on uncaringly at the spectacle of the storm. The
speaker wishes that he were a pagan raised according to a different vision of the world,
so that, “standing on this pleasant lea,” he might see images of ancient gods rising
from the waves, a sight that would cheer him greatly. He imagines “Proteus rising from
the sea,” and Triton “blowing his wreathed horn.”
The world is too much with us” falls in line with a number of sonnets written by
Wordsworth in the early 1800s that criticize or admonish what Wordsworth saw as the
decadent material cynicism of the time. This relatively simple poem angrily states that
human beings are too preoccupied with the material (“The world...getting and
spending”) and have lost touch with the spiritual and with nature. In the sestet, the
speaker dramatically proposes an impossible personal solution to his problem—he
wishes he could have been raised as a pagan, so he could still see ancient gods in the
actions of nature and thereby gain spiritual solace. His thunderous “Great God!”
indicates the extremity of his wish—in Christian England, one did not often wish to be a
pagan.
On the whole, this sonnet offers an angry summation of the familiar Wordsworthian
theme of communion with nature, and states precisely how far the early nineteenth
century was from living out the Wordsworthian ideal. The sonnet is important for its
rhetorical force (it shows Wordsworth’s increasing confidence with language as an
implement of dramatic power, sweeping the wind and the sea up like flowers in a
bouquet), and for being representative of other poems in the Wordsworth canon
Ode: Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood
BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

The child is father of the man

And I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety

There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,

The earth, and every common sight,
To me did seem
Apparelled in celestial light,
The glory and the freshness of a dream.
It is not now as it hath been of yore;—
Turn wheresoe'er I may,
By night or day.
The things which I have seen I now can see no more.

The Rainbow comes and goes,

And lovely is the Rose,
The Moon doth with delight
Look round her when the heavens are bare,
Waters on a starry night
Are beautiful and fair;
The sunshine is a glorious birth;
But yet I know, where'er I go,
That there hath past away a glory from the earth.

Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song,

And while the young lambs bound
As to the tabor's sound,
To me alone there came a thought of grief:
A timely utterance gave that thought relief,
And I again am strong:
The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep;
No more shall grief of mine the season wrong;
I hear the Echoes through the mountains throng,
The Winds come to me from the fields of sleep,
And all the earth is gay;
Land and sea
Give themselves up to jollity,
And with the heart of May
Doth every Beast keep holiday;—
Thou Child of Joy,
Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy Shepherd-boy.
 Summary
In the first stanza, the speaker says wistfully that there was a time when all of nature
seemed dreamlike to him, “apparelled in celestial light,” and that that time is past; “the
things I have seen I can see no more.” In the second stanza, he says that he still sees
the rainbow, and that the rose is still lovely; the moon looks around the sky with delight,
and starlight and sunshine are each beautiful. Nonetheless the speaker feels that a
glory has passed away from the earth.
In the third stanza, the speaker says that, while listening to the birds sing in springtime
and watching the young lambs leap and play, he was stricken with a thought of grief;
but the sound of nearby waterfalls, the echoes of the mountains, and the gusting of the
winds restored him to strength. He declares that his grief will no longer wrong the joy of
the season, and that all the earth is happy. He exhorts a shepherd boy to shout and
play around him.

Frost at Midnight But O! how oft,

BY SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE
The Frost performs its secret ministry,
Unhelped by any wind. The owlet's cry
Came loud—and hark, again! loud as before.
The inmates of my cottage, all at rest,
Have left me to that solitude, which suits
Abstruser musings: save that at my side
My cradled infant slumbers peacefully.
'Tis calm indeed! so calm, that it disturbs
And vexes meditation with its strange
And extreme silentness. Sea, hill, and wood,
This populous village! Sea, and hill, and wood,
With all the numberless goings-on of life,
Inaudible as dreams! the thin blue flame
Lies on my low-burnt fire, and quivers not;
Only that film, which fluttered on the grate,
Still flutters there, the sole unquiet thing.
Methinks, its motion in this hush of nature
Gives it dim sympathies with me who live,
Making it a companionable form,
Whose puny flaps and freaks the idling Spirit
By its own moods interprets, every where
Echo or mirror seeking of itself,
And makes a toy of Thought.
How oft, at school, with most believing mind,
Presageful, have I gazed upon the bars,
To watch that fluttering stranger ! and as oft
With unclosed lids, already had I dreamt
Of my sweet birth-place, and the old church-tower,
Whose bells, the poor man's only music, rang
From morn to evening, all the hot Fair-day,
So sweetly, that they stirred and haunted me
With a wild pleasure, falling on mine ear
Most like articulate sounds of things to come!
So gazed I, till the soothing things, I dreamt,
Lulled me to sleep, and sleep prolonged my dreams!
And so I brooded all the following morn,
Awed by the stern preceptor's face, mine eye
Fixed with mock study on my swimming book:
Save if the door half opened, and I snatched
A hasty glance, and still my heart leaped up,
For still I hoped to see the stranger's face,
Townsman, or aunt, or sister more beloved,
My play-mate when we both were clothed alike!
Dear Babe, that sleepest cradled by my side,
Whose gentle breathings, heard in this deep calm,
Fill up the intersperséd vacancies
And momentary pauses of the thought!
My babe so beautiful! it thrills my heart
 With tender gladness, thus to look at thee,
And think that thou shalt learn far other lore,
And in far other scenes! For I was reared
In the great city, pent 'mid cloisters dim,
And saw nought lovely but the sky and stars.
But thou, my babe! shalt wander like a breeze
By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the crags
Of ancient mountain, and beneath the clouds,
Which image in their bulk both lakes and shores
And mountain crags: so shalt thou see and hear
The lovely shapes and sounds intelligible
Of that eternal language, which thy God
Utters, who from eternity doth teach
Himself in all, and all things in himself.
Great universal Teacher! he shall mould
Thy spirit, and by giving make it ask.
Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee,
Whether the summer clothe the general earth
With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing
Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch
Of mossy apple-tree, while the night-thatch
Smokes in the sun-thaw; whether the eave-drops fall
Heard only in the trances of the blast,
Or if the secret ministry of frost
Shall hang them up in silent icicles,
Quietly shining to the quiet Moon.

As the frost “performs its secret ministry” in the windless night, an owlet’s cry twice
pierces the silence. The “inmates” of the speaker’s cottage are all asleep, and the
speaker sits alone, solitary except for the “cradled infant” sleeping by his side. The
calm is so total that the silence becomes distracting, and all the world of “sea, hill, and
wood, / This populous village!” seems “inaudible as dreams.” The thin blue flame of the
fire burns without flickering; only the film on the grate flutters, which makes it seem
“companionable” to the speaker, almost alive—stirred by “the idling Spirit.”

“But O!” the speaker declares; as a child he often watched “that fluttering stranger” on
the bars of his school window and daydreamed about his birthplace and the church
tower whose bells rang so sweetly on Fair-day. These things lured him to sleep in his
childhood, and he brooded on them at school, only pretending to look at his books—
unless, of course, the door opened, in which case he looked up eagerly, hoping to see
“Townsman, or aunt, or sister more beloved, / My play-mate when we both were
clothed alike!”

Addressing the “Dear Babe, that sleep[s] cradled” by his side, whose breath fills the
silences in his thought, the speaker says that it thrills his heart to look at his beautiful
child. He enjoys the thought that although he himself was raised in the “great city, pent
’mid cloisters dim,” his child will wander in the rural countryside, by lakes and shores
and mountains, and his spirit shall be molded by God, who will “by giving make it [the
child] ask.”

All seasons, the speaker proclaims, shall be sweet to his child, whether the summer
makes the earth green or the robin redbreast sings between tufts of snow on the
branch; whether the storm makes “the eave-drops fall” or the frost’s “secret ministry”
hangs icicles silently, “quietly shining to the quiet Moon.”
The speaker of “Frost at Midnight” is generally held to be Coleridge himself, and the
poem is a quiet, very personal restatement of the abiding themes of early English
Romanticism: the effect of nature on the imagination (nature is the Teacher that “by
giving” to the child’s spirit also makes it “ask”); the relationship between children and the
natural world (“thou, my babe! shall wander like a breeze...”); the contrast between this
liberating country setting and city (“I was reared / In the great city, pent ’mid cloisters
dim”); and the relationship between adulthood and childhood as they are linked in adult
memory.

She Walks in Beauty

BY LORD BYRON (GEORGE GORDON)
She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes;
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,

Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o’er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express,
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!

there is no doubt that the lady has made a definite impression on the poet. To him, she
is beautiful in the same way that “night” is beautiful, and, as he hastens to add, he
means a particular kind of night, one of “cloudless climes and starry skies.” There is no
threat of a storm in this imagined landscape; there are no clouds to produce even a
shower. Such a night is not really dark, for, as readers are told, the sky is filled with
stars. Their light is soft and subdued; similarly, the dark lady has “tender” eyes, as
unlike those of less subtle women as the light of a “starry” night is from that of “gaudy
day.”
Byron proceeds to amplify his earlier suggestion that a perfect combination of “dark
and bright” is the secret of his subject’s beauty. The second stanza of the poem begins
with an explicit statement to this effect: either more or less light, he insists, would have
at least to some degree “impair’d” her “grace.” At this point, the poet finally gives his
readers a clue as to what may have triggered his response, for it appears that the lady
does have “raven” hair. However, Byron does not have so specific an explanation for
the brightness of “her face.” He does not seem to mean that she has a rosy
complexion; instead, it is her “thoughts serenely sweet,” so evident in her facial
expressions, that account for the impression she makes on all those who observe her.
In the final stanza, Byron continues to explore the relationship between inner and outer
beauty. The blushes that appear on the lady’s “cheek,” her “smiles,” everything on her
“brow,” or countenance, all reveal her sterling virtue. In the last lines of the poem,
Byron sums up what he surmises: that the lady spends much of her time doing good
deeds, that her “mind” harbors no animosity toward anyone, and that when love enters
her heart, it is an “innocent” emotion. Byron’s description of a dark-haired lady thus
becomes much more: It is also his definition of the ideal woman.

When We Two Parted

George Gordon Byron - 1788-1824

When we two parted

In silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted
To sever for years,
Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
Colder thy kiss;
Truly that hour foretold
Sorrow to this.

The dew of the morning

Sunk chill on my brow--
It felt like the warning
Of what I feel now.
Thy vows are all broken,
And light is thy fame;
I hear thy name spoken,
And share in its shame.
They name thee before me,
A knell to mine ear;
A shudder comes o'er me--
Why wert thou so dear?
They know not I knew thee,
Who knew thee too well--
Long, long shall I rue thee,
Too deeply to tell.
In secret we met--
In silence I grieve,
That thy heart could forget,
Thy spirit deceive.
If I should meet thee
After long years,
How should I greet thee?--
With silence and tears.
A poem like this is more for the writer than for the reader: expressing his 'grief' at the
end of the relationship is an important way of coming to terms with what he feels.

This makes this a very cathartic poem. Byron asks himself why he cared for his lover
so much ('Why wert thou so dear?'), implying that he has a very different attitude to her
now even though he is struggling to change his feelings.
He is also deeply bitter about the breakup, believing that he will continue to 'rue' or
regret the relationship for a 'long, long' time. He believes that it was his lover's fault
that the relationship ended - that 'thy heart could forget, | Thy spirit deceive' - but we
are unable to tell what objectively happened. This doesn't make the poem any less
honest, but it is essentially about the poet's feelings about the breakup, not really about
the breakup itself.

The poem is also very secretive: Byron addresses his past lover as 'thee', not using a
name or giving any details, and explains that none of his friends knew of the
relationship ('They knew not I knew thee' and 'In secret we met'). This secrecy has
made it hard for him to share his feelings as he is also ashamed of the breakup and his
unhappiness. He feels guilty (he says he knew her 'too well') and hasn't forgiven
himself or his lover.

Ozymandias
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BY PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY
I met a traveller from an antique land,
Who said—“Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal, these words appear:
My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings;
Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.”

As this poem is written about a ruined statue, it presents the perspective of a young
traveler who provides a detailed description of the scattered ruins of the statue. The
poem explores the fun of art and beauty in the natural world. The expression of wonder
starts from the first line and runs throughout the poem. However, what stays in the
minds of the readers is the impacts of the transience of life and permanence of art.
The poem comprises emotions of a traveler, who imagines the story of ruins of a statue
in a desert. The traveler expresses that the statue was broken; two legs were standing
without a body and head was half sunk in the sand. He also explains the expressions
of the statue such as the “frown” and “sneer of cold command,” which indicates that the
sculptor has made the statue to speak for itself. The lifeless statue has the name,
Ozymandias, the kings of kings, on its pedestal. The name indicates the readers to
look at the massive statue of the mighty king, but the ruined state means that nothing
remains after one’s death, even if he is a king. It shows the keen observation of the
traveler on the one hand, and the artistic skills of a sculptor on the other.

Ode: A formal, often ceremonious lyric poem that addresses and often
celebrates a person, place, thing, or idea.

Ode to the west wind – Percy Shelley

The speaker invokes the “wild West Wind” of autumn, which scatters the dead leaves
and spreads seeds so that they may be nurtured by the spring, and asks that the wind,
a “destroyer and preserver,” hear him. The speaker calls the wind the “dirge / Of the
dying year,” and describes how it stirs up violent storms, and again implores it to hear
him. The speaker says that the wind stirs the Mediterranean from “his summer
dreams,” and cleaves the Atlantic into choppy chasms, making the “sapless foliage” of
the ocean tremble, and asks for a third time that it hear him.
The speaker says that if he were a dead leaf that the wind could bear, or a cloud it
could carry, or a wave it could push, or even if he were, as a boy, “the comrade” of the
wind’s “wandering over heaven,” then he would never have needed to pray to the wind
and invoke its powers. He pleads with the wind to lift him “as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!”—
for though he is like the wind at heart, untamable and proud—he is now chained and
bowed with the weight of his hours upon the earth.
The speaker asks the wind to “make me thy lyre,” to be his own Spirit, and to drive his
thoughts across the universe, “like withered leaves, to quicken a new birth.” He asks
the wind, by the incantation of this verse, to scatter his words among mankind, to be
the “trumpet of a prophecy.” Speaking both in regard to the season and in regard to the
effect upon mankind that he hopes his words to have, the speaker asks: “If winter
comes, can spring be far behind?”

Ode to a nightingale – John Keats

The speaker opens with a declaration of his own heartache. He feels numb, as though
he had taken a drug only a moment ago. He is addressing a nightingale he hears
singing somewhere in the forest and says that his “drowsy numbness” is not from envy
of the nightingale’s happiness, but rather from sharing it too completely; he is “too
happy” that the nightingale sings the music of summer from amid some unseen plot of
green trees and shadows.
In the second stanza, the speaker longs for the oblivion of alcohol, expressing his wish
for wine, “a draught of vintage,” that would taste like the country and like peasant
dances, and let him “leave the world unseen” and disappear into the dim forest with the
nightingale. In the third stanza, he explains his desire to fade away, saying he would
like to forget the troubles the nightingale has never known: “the weariness, the fever,
and the fret” of human life, with its consciousness that everything is mortal and nothing
lasts. Youth “grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies,” and “beauty cannot keep her
lustrous eyes.”
n the fourth stanza, the speaker tells the nightingale to fly away, and he will follow, not
through alcohol (“Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards”), but through poetry, which
will give him “viewless wings.” He says he is already with the nightingale and describes
the forest glade, where even the moonlight is hidden by the trees, except the light that
breaks through when the breezes blow the branches. In the fifth stanza, the speaker
says that he cannot see the flowers in the glade, but can guess them “in embalmed
darkness”: white hawthorne, eglantine, violets, and the musk-rose, “the murmurous
haunt of flies on summer eves.” In the sixth stanza, the speaker listens in the dark to
the nightingale, saying that he has often been “half in love” with the idea of dying and
called Death soft names in many rhymes. Surrounded by the nightingale’s song, the
speaker thinks that the idea of death seems richer than ever, and he longs to “cease
upon the midnight with no pain” while the nightingale pours its soul ecstatically forth. If
he were to die, the nightingale would continue to sing, he says, but he would “have
ears in vain” and be no longer able to hear.
In the seventh stanza, the speaker tells the nightingale that it is immortal, that it was
not “born for death.” He says that the voice he hears singing has always been heard,
by ancient emperors and clowns, by homesick Ruth; he even says the song has often
charmed open magic windows looking out over “the foam / Of perilous seas, in faery
lands forlorn.” In the eighth stanza, the word forlorn tolls like a bell to restore the
speaker from his preoccupation with the nightingale and back into himself. As the
nightingale flies farther away from him, he laments that his imagination has failed him
and says that he can no longer recall whether the nightingale’s music was “a vision, or
a waking dream.” Now that the music is gone, the speaker cannot recall whether he
himself is awake or asleep.