Lines Written in Early Spring
I HEARD a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sate reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant
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
What man has made of man.
Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
And 'tis my faith that every
Enjoys the air it breathes.
The birds around me hopped and played,
Their thoughts I cannot measure:--
But the least motion which they
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?
- William Wordsworth
Written in March
THE cock is crowing,
The stream is flowing,
The small birds twitter,
The lake doth glitter
The green field sleeps in the sun;
The oldest and youngest
Are at work with the strongest;
The cattle are grazing,
Their heads never raising;
There are forty feeding like one!
Like an army defeated
The snow hath retreated,
And now doth fare ill
On the top of the bare hill;
The plowboy is whooping- anon-anon:
There's joy in the mountains;
There's life in the fountains;
Small clouds are sailing,
Blue sky prevailing;
The rain is over and gone!
- William Wordsworth
COME to the river-bank with me;
For there are plumed ferns of crescent green,
And in the wine-dark
pools are seen
The crimson-spotted trout.
Hush! hush! move through the brake most silently,
Vex with no loud
The holy secrecy of this sweet glade,
And you shall see
The dipper rush with sudden flash, and fade
Into the woodland screen;
Nor shall you by your presence make afraid
The kingfisher, who looks down dreamily
At his own shadow gorgeously array'd.
-Sir Edmund William Gosse
I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,
From the seas and the streams;
I bear light shade for the leaves
In their noonday
From my wings are shaken the dews that waken
The sweet buds every one,
When rocked to rest on their mother's
As she dances
about the sun.
I wield the flail of the lashing hail,
And whiten the green plains under,
And then again I dissolve it
And laugh as
I pass in thunder.
I sift the snow on the mountains below,
And their great pines groan aghast;
And all the night 'tis my pillow
While I sleep
in the arms of the blast.
Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers,
Lightning, my pilot,
In a cavern under is fettered the thunder,
It struggles and howls at fits;
Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion,
This pilot is guiding me,
Lured by the love of the genii that move
In the depths of the
Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills,
Over the lakes and the plains,
Wherever he dream, under mountain
he loves remains;
And I all the while bask in Heaven's blue smile,
Whilst he is dissolving
The sanguine Sunrise, with his meteor eyes,
And his burning plumes outspread,
Leaps on the back of my sailing
When the morning
star shines dead;
As on the jag of a mountain crag,
Which an earthquake rocks and swings,
An eagle alit one moment
In the light
of its golden wings.
And when Sunset may breathe, from the lit
of rest and of love,
And the crimson pall of eve may fall
From the depth of Heaven above,
With wings folded I rest, on mine
As still as
a brooding dove.
That orbed maiden with white fire laden,
Whom mortals call the Moon,
Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like
By the midnight
And wherever the beat of her unseen feet,
Which only the angels hear,
May have broken the woof of my tent's
peep behind her and peer;
And I laugh to see them whirl and flee,
Like a swarm of golden
When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent,
Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas,
Like strips of the sky fallen
through me on high,
each paved with the moon and these.
I bind the Sun's throne with a burning zone,
And the Moon's with a girdle of pearl;
The volcanoes are dim, and
the stars reel and swim
When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl.
From cape to cape, with a
a torrent sea,
Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof,--
The mountains its columns be.
The triumphal arch through which
fire, and snow,
When the Powers of the air are chained to my chair,
Is the million-colored
The sphere-fire above its soft colors wove,
While the moist Earth was laughing below.
I am the daughter of Earth and Water,
And the nursling of the Sky;
I pass through the pores of the ocean
but I cannot die.
For after the rain when with never a stain
The pavilion of Heaven is bare,
And the winds and sunbeams with
their convex gleams
up the blue dome of air,
I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,
And out of the caverns of rain,
Like a child from the womb, like
a ghost from the tomb,
I arise and unbuild it again.
- Percy Bysshe Shelley
Flower in the Crannied Wall
FLOWER in the crannied wall,
I pluck you out of the crannies,
I hold you here, root and all,
in my hand,
Little flower--but if I could understand
What you are, root and all, all in all,
I should know what God
and man is.
- Alfred, Lord Tennyson
On the Grasshopper and Cricket
THE poetry of earth is never dead:
When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,
And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run
From hedge to hedge
about the new-mown mead;
That is the Grasshopper's--he takes the
In summer luxury,--he has never
With his delights; for when
tired out with fun
He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.
The poetry of earth is ceasing never:
On a lone winter evening, when the frost
Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills
song, in warmth increasing ever,
And seems to one in drowsiness half lost,
The Grasshopper's among some grassy hills. (1816)
- John Keats
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods
fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods
and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
- Robert Frost