This Views Poetry |
I wandered lonely as a cloud | ||||
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I wandered lonely as a cloud Continuous as the stars that shine The waves beside them danced; but they For oft, when on my couch I lie |
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William Wordsworth (1770-1850) | ||||
Norton Anthology
of English Literature: The Major Authors (Sixth Edition) pp. 1381f |
The Two April Mornings | ||||
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We walkd along, while bright and red Uprose the morning sun; And Matthew stoppd, he lookd, and said, The will of God be done! A village schoolmaster was he, With hair of glittering gray; As blithe a man as you could see On a spring holiday. And on that morning, through the grass And by the steaming rills We travelld merrily, to pass A day among the hills. Our work, said I, was well begun; Then, from thy breast what thought, Beneath so beautiful a sun, So sad a sigh has brought? A second time did Matthew stop; And fixing still his eye Upon the eastern mountain-top, To me he made reply: Yon cloud with that long purple cleft Brings fresh into my mind A day like this, which I have left Full thirty years behind. And just above yon slope of corn Such colours, and no other, Were in the sky that April morn, Of this the very brother. With rod and line I sued the sport Which that sweet season gave, And coming to the church, stoppd short Beside my daughters grave. Nine summers had she scarcely seen, The pride of all the vale; And then she sang, — she would have been A very nightingale. Six feet in earth my Emma lay; And yet I loved her more — For so it seemd — than till that day I eer had loved before. And turning from her grave, I met, Beside the churchyard yew, A blooming girl, whose hair was wet With points of morning dew. A basket on her head she bare; Her brow was smooth and white: To see a child so very fair, It was a pure delight! No fountain from its rocky cave Eer trippd with foot so free; She seemd as happy as a wave That dances on the sea. There came from me a sigh of pain, Which I could ill confine; I lookd at her, and lookd again: And did not wish her mine! Matthew is in his grave, yet now Methinks I see him stand As at that moment, with a bough Of wilding in his hand. |
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William Wordsworth (1770-1850) | ||||
The Golden
Treasury (1875) CCLXXXI ed. Francis T. Palgrave |
Triad | ||||
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From the Silence of Time, Times Silence borrow. In the heart of To-day is the word of To-morrow. The Builders of Joy are the Children of Sorrow. |
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William Sharp (1856-1902) | ||||
Oxford Book of English Mystical Verse p. 400 |
This Views Poetry |
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