Lines Written in Early Spring

William Wordsworth

 
I heard a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sate reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.
To her fair works did nature link
The human soul that through me ran;
And much it grieved my heart to think
What man has made of man.
Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower,
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;                         
And 'tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.
The birds around me hopped and played:
Their thoughts I cannot measure,
But the least motion which they made,
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.
The budding twigs spread out their fan,
To catch the breezy air;
And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.                              
If this belief from heaven be sent,
If such be Nature's holy plan,
Have I not reason to lament
What man has made of man?
 

Poems by This Author

from The Kitten and Falling Leaves by William Wordsworth
See the kitten on the wall, sporting with the leaves that fall
A Slumber Did My Spirit Seal by William Wordsworth
A slumber did my spirit seal;
Composed Upon Westminster Bridge, September 3, 1802 by William Wordsworth
Earth has not anything to show more fair:
It is a Beauteous Evening, Calm and Free by William Wordsworth
It is a beauteous evening, calm and free
My Heart Leaps Up by William Wordsworth
My heart leaps up when I behold
Ode on Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood by William Wordsworth
There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
Perfect Woman by William Wordsworth
She was a phantom of delight
She dwelt among the untrodden ways by William Wordsworth
She dwelt among the untrodden ways
Surprised By Joy by William Wordsworth
Surprised by joy—impatient as the Wind
The Daffodils by William Wordsworth
I wandered lonely as a cloud
The Solitary Reaper by William Wordsworth
Behold her, single in the field
The Sun Has Long Been Set by William Wordsworth
The sun has long been set
The World Is Too Much With Us by William Wordsworth
The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Tintern Abbey by William Wordsworth
Five years have past; five summers, with the length
Travelling by William Wordsworth
This is the spot:—how mildly does the sun
We Are Seven by William Wordsworth
--A simple child,


Further Reading

Related Poems
On a Thought of Wordsworth's
by Théophile Gautier
Spring
Endymion, Book I, [A thing of beauty is a joy for ever]
by John Keats
The Winter's Tale Act IV, Scene II [When daffodils begin to peer]
by William Shakespeare
A Blessing
by James Wright
After dark vapors have oppress'd our plains
by John Keats
Alcove
by John Ashbery
Another Attempt at Rescue
by M. L. Smoker
Birds Again
by Jim Harrison
Black Petal
by Li-Young Lee
Butterfly Catcher
by Tina Cane
Chansons Innocentes: I
by E. E. Cummings
City That Does Not Sleep
by Federico García Lorca
Diary [Surface]
by Rachel Zucker
Each year
by Dora Malech
From you have I been absent in the spring... (Sonnet 98)
by William Shakespeare
Hustlers with Bad Timing
by D. A. Powell
If a Wilderness
by Carl Phillips
In cold spring air
by Reginald Gibbons
In the Memphis Airport
by Timothy Steele
Magdalen Walks
by Oscar Wilde
Morning News
by Marilyn Hacker
National Poetry Month
by Elaine Equi
Papyrus
by Ezra Pound
Prologue of the Earthly Paradise
by William Morris
Song On May Morning
by John Milton
Spring
by Edna St. Vincent Millay
Spring
by Gerard Manley Hopkins
Spring and All [By the road to the contagious hospital]
by William Carlos Williams
Spring Day [Bath]
by Amy Lowell
Spring in New Hampshire
by Claude McKay
Spring is like a perhaps hand
by E. E. Cummings
spring love noise and all [excerpt]
by David Antin
Spring Snow
by Arthur Sze
Spring Song
by Sherwood Anderson
Spring Storm
by William Carlos Williams
Springing
by Marie Ponsot
The Enkindled Spring
by D. H. Lawrence
The Magpie's Shadow
by Yvor Winters
Thinking of Madame Bovary
by Jane Kenyon
Two Sewing
by Hazel Hall
Under the Willows [May is a pious fraud of the almanac]
by James Russell Lowell
Vernal Equinox
by Amy Lowell
[O were my love yon Lilac fair]
by Robert Burns