Wordsworth I love, his books are like the fields, Not filled with flowers, but works of human kind; The pleasant weed a fragrant pleasure yields, The briar and broomwood shaken by the wind,...
Poet of Nature, thou hast wept to know That things depart which never may return: Childhood and youth, friendship and love's first glow, Have fled like sweet dreams, leaving thee to mourn....
I know! I know!-- The ceaseless ache, the emptiness, the woe,-- The pang of loss,-- The strength that sinks beneath so sore a cross. "--Heedless and careless, still the world wags on,...
In the harbor, in the island, in the Spanish Seas, Are the tiny white houses and the orange trees, And day-long, night-long, the cool and pleasant breeze Of the steady Trade Winds blowing. ...
Small towns Crawling out of their green shirts... Tubercular towns Coughing a little in the dawn... And the church... There is always a church With its natty spire And the vestibule -...
A new song here shall be begun-- The Lord God help our singing!-- Of what our God himself hath done, Praise, honour to him bringing: At Brussels in the Netherlands, By two young boys, He gracious...
Dear Christians, let us now rejoice, And dance in joyous measure; That, of good cheer, and with one voice, We sing in love and pleasure Of what to us our God hath shown,...
To Jordan when our Lord had gone, His Father's pleasure willing, He took his baptism of St. John, His work and charge fulfilling; Therein he did appoint a bath To wash us from defilement,...
Tree at my window, window tree, My sash is lowered when night comes on; But let there never be curtain drawn Between you and me. Vague dream-head lifted out of the ground,...
Vast and mysterious brother, ere was yet of me So much as men may poise upon a needle's end, Still shook with laughter all this monstrous might of thee, And still with haughty crest it called the morning friend....
But all that year in Brittany forlorn, More sick at heart with wrath than fear of scorn And less in love with love than grief, and less With grief than pride of spirit and bitterness,...
The moon is broken in twain, and half a moon Before me lies on the still, pale floor of the sky; The other half of the broken coin of troth Is buried away in the dark, where the still dead lie....
At five this morn, when Phoebus raised his head From Thetis' lap, I raised myself from bed, And mounting steed, I trotted to the waters The rendesvous of fools, buffoons, and praters,...
Twin'st thou with lofty wreath thy brow? Such glory then thy beauty sheds, I almost think, while awed I bow 'Tis Rhea's self before me treads. Be what thou wilt,--this heart Adores whate'er thou art!...
Hear the loud swell of it, mighty pell mell of it, Thousands of voices all blent into one: See 'hell for leather' now trooping together, now Down the long slope of the range at a run,...