Favourite poet

My favourite poet is William Wordsworth and my favourite poem is his's "Daffodils".It incorporates the ideas and aspects that are essential in poetry during the Romantic movement. Various peaceful images of nature, including a field of daffodils, exude human qualities in the poem. These natural images express Wordsworth's self-reflections, whether it be tranquil solitude at the beginning of the poem or excitement about being in the company of daffodils at the end. The field of daffodils is evidently the subject of this poem, making nature the most apparent feature throughout. As well as this, William Wordsworth also adds a range of natural images such as lakes, trees, stars and even clouds, which he metaphored for himself. Through nature a mood is instantly created from the very first line, "I wandered lonely as a cloud."
The atmosphere established in this poem is very peaceful and the use of nature creates a tranquil yet joyful setting. The imagery of nature and the peacefulness that is created is accomplished through the many metaphors, similes and descriptive language that he uses.William Wordsworth is also a very interesting person.He was inspired to write the poem because he saw some daffodils!Sadly,he died at 80 years old.William Wordsworth also was England's Poet Laureate from 1843 until his death in 1850.One of his best works is The Prelude. His definition of poetry as "the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings arising from "emotion recollected in tranquillity" was shared by a number of his followers. "Poetry is the breath and finer spirit of all knowledge; it is the impassioned expression which is in the countenance of all Science."

THE PRELUDE Courtesy of http://www.bartleby.com/236/68.html
THUS while the days flew by, and years passed on,

From Nature and her overflowing soul

I had received so much, that all my thoughts

Were steeped in feeling; I was only then

Contented, when with bliss ineffable

I felt the sentiment of Being spread

O’er all that moves and all that seemeth still;

O’er all that, lost beyond the reach of thought

And human knowledge, to the human eye

Invisible, yet liveth to the heart;

O’er all that leaps and runs, and shouts and sings,

Or beats the gladsome air; o’er all that glides

Beneath the wave, yea, in the wave itself,

And mighty depth of waters. Wonder not

If high the transport, great the joy I felt

Communing in this sort through earth and heaven

With every form of creature, as it looked

Towards the Uncreated with a countenance

Of adoration, with an eye of love.

One song they sang, and it was audible,

Most audible, then, when the fleshly ear,

O’ercome by humblest prelude of that strain,

Forgot her functions, and slept undisturbed.


Of that external scene which round me lay,

Little, in this abstraction, did I see;

Remembered less; but I had inward hopes

And swellings of the spirit, was rapt and soothed,

Conversed with promises, had glimmering views

How life pervades the undecaying mind;

How the immortal soul with God-like power

Informs, creates, and thaws the deepest sleep

That time can lay upon her; how on earth,

Man, if he do but live within the light

Of high endeavours, daily spreads abroad

His being armed with strength that cannot fail.


Visionary power

Attends the motions of the viewless winds,

Embodied in the mystery of words:

There, darkness makes abode, and all the host

Of shadowy things work endless changes,—there,

As in a mansion like their proper home,

Even forms and substances are circumfused

By that transparent veil with light divine,

And, through the turnings intricate of verse,

Present themselves as objects recognized,

In flashes, and with glory not their own.


Imagination—here the Power so called

Through sad incompetence of human speech,

That awful Power rose from the mind’s abyss

Like an unfathered vapour that enwraps,

At once, some lonely traveller. I was lost;

Halted without an effort to break through;

But to my conscious soul I now can say—

I recognize thy glory: in such strength

Of usurpation, when the light of sense

Goes out, but with a flash that has revealed

The invisible world, doth greatness make abode,

There harbours; whether we be young or old,

Our destiny, our being’s heart and home,

Is with infinitude, and only there;

With hope it is, hope that can never die,

Effort, and expectation, and desire,

And something evermore about to be.

Under such banners militant, the soul

Seeks for no trophies, struggles for no spoils

That may attest her prowess, blest in thoughts

That are their own perfection and reward,

Strong in herself and in beatitude

That hides her, like the mighty flood of Nile

Poured from his fount of Abyssinian clouds

To fertilize the whole Egyptian plain.


The brook and road

Were fellow-travellers in this gloomy strait,

And with them did we journey several hours

At a slow pace. The immeasurable height

Of woods decaying, never to be decayed,

The stationary blasts of waterfalls,

And in the narrow rent at every turn

Winds thwarting winds, bewildered and forlorn,

The torrents shooting from the clear blue sky,

The rocks that muttered close upon our ears,

Black drizzling crags that spake by the way-side

As if a voice were in them, the sick sight

And giddy prospect of the raving stream,

The unfettered clouds and region of the Heavens,

Tumult and peace, the darkness and the light—

Were all like workings of one mind, the features

Of the same face, blossoms upon one tree;

Characters of the great Apocalypse,

The types and symbols of Eternity,

Of first, and last, and midst, and without end.


In some green bower

Rest, and be not alone, but have thou there

The One who is thy choice of all the world:

There linger, listening, gazing, with delight

Impassioned, but delight how pitiable!

Unless this love by a still higher love

Be hallowed, love that breathes not without awe;

Love that adores, but on the knees of prayer,

By heaven inspired; that frees from chains the soul,

Lifted, in union with the purest, best,

Of earth-born passions, on the wings of praise

Bearing a tribute to the Almighty’s Throne.


This spiritual Love acts not nor can exist

Without Imagination, which, in truth,

Is but another name for absolute power

And clearest insight, amplitude of mind,

And Reason in her most exalted mood.

This faculty hath been the feeding source

Of our long labour: 2 we have traced the stream

From the blind cavern whence is faintly heard

Its natal murmur; followed it to light

And open day; accompanied its course

Among the ways of Nature, for a time

Lost sight of it bewildered and engulphed;

Then given it greeting as it rose once more

In strength, reflecting from its placid breast

The works of man and face of human life;

And lastly, from its progress have we drawn

Faith in life endless, the sustaining thought

Of human Being, Eternity, and God.


Daffodils Courtesy of http://www.poetry-online.org/wordsworth_daffodils.htm
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced, but they
Out-did the sparkling leaves in glee;
A poet could not be but gay,
In such a jocund company!
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

The Solitary Reaper Courtesy of http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/poems/82.html
Behold her, single in the field,
Yon solitary Highland Lass!
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here, or gently pass!
Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain;
O listen! for the Vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.

No Nightingale did ever chaunt
More welcome notes to weary bands
Of travellers in some shady haunt,
Among Arabian sands:
A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard
In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.

Will no one tell me what she sings?--
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago:
Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day?
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again?

Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o'er the sickle bending;--
I listened, motionless and still;
And, as I mounted up the hill
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.