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William Wordsworth. (1770–1850) (continued)

5091

To the solid ground
Of Nature trusts the mind that builds for aye.

A Volant Tribe of Bards on Earth.

5092

Soft is the music that would charm forever;
The flower of sweetest smell is shy and lowly.

Not Love, not War.

5093

    True beauty dwells in deep retreats,
  Whose veil is unremoved
Till heart with heart in concord beats,
  And the lover is beloved.

To ———. Let other Bards of Angels sing.

5094

Type of the wise who soar but never roam,
True to the kindred points of heaven and home.

To a Skylark.

5095

A Briton even in love should be
A subject, not a slave!

Ere with Cold Beads of Midnight Dew.

5096

Scorn not the sonnet. Critic, you have frowned,
Mindless of its just honours; with this key
Shakespeare unlocked his heart. 1

Scorn not the Sonnet.

5097

And when a damp
Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand
The thing became a trumpet; whence he blew
Soul-animating strains,—alas! too few.

Scorn not the Sonnet.

5098

But he is risen, a later star of dawn.

A Morning Exercise.

5099

Bright gem instinct with music, vocal spark.

A Morning Exercise.

5100

When his veering gait
And every motion of his starry train
Seem governed by a strain
Of music, audible to him alone.

The Triad.

Note 1.
With this same key
Shakespeare unlocked his heart.
Robert Browning: House. [back]