My Favorite Poems

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• "A Celtic Blessing" by Anonymous Irish Visit Anonymous Irish's Page Read Poem

  May the light of your soul guide you.
  
  May the light of your soul bless the work that you do
  with the secret love and warmth of your heart.
  
  May you see in what you do the beauty of your own soul.
  
  May the sacredness of your work bring healing, light
  and renewal to those who work with you
  and to those who see and receive your work.
  
  May your work never weary you.
  
  May it release within you wellsprings of
  refreshment, inspiration and excitement.
  
  May you be present in what you do.
  
  May you never become lost in bland absences.
  
  May the day never burden.
  
  May dawn find you awake and alert,
  approaching your new day with dreams, possibilities and promises.
  
  May evening find you gracious and fulfilled.
  
  May you go into the night blessed, sheltered and protected.
  
  May your soul calm, console and renew you.

• "A Celtic Prayer" by Anonymous Irish Visit Anonymous Irish's Page Read Poem

  Deep peace of the
  running waves to you.
  
  Deep peace of the
  flowing air to you.
  
  Deep peace of the
  quiet earth to you.
  
  Deep peace of the
  shining stars to you.
  
  Deep peace of the
  Son of Peace to you.

• "An Irish Blessing" by Anonymous Irish Visit Anonymous Irish's Page Read Poem

  May there always be work for your hands to do;
  May your purse always hold a coin or two;
  May the sun always shine on your windowpane;
  May a rainbow be certain to follow each rain;
  May the hand of a friend always be near you;
  May God fill your heart with gladness to cheer you.

• "Danny Boy" by Anonymous Irish Visit Anonymous Irish's Page Read Poem

  Oh Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling
  From glen to glen, and down the mountain side
  The summer's gone, and all the flowers are dying
  'Tis you, 'tis you must go and I must bide.
  
  But come ye back when summer's in the meadow
  Or when the valley's hushed and white with snow
  'Tis I'll be here in sunshine or in shadow
  Oh Danny boy, oh Danny boy, I love you so.
  
  And if you come, when all the flowers are dying
  And I am dead, as dead I well may be
  You'll come and find the place where I am lying
  And kneel and say an "Ave" there for me.
  
  And I shall hear, tho' soft you tread above me
  And all my dreams will warm and sweeter be
  If you'll not fail to tell me that you love me
  I'll simply sleep in peace until you come to me.
  
  I'll simply sleep in peace until you come to me.

• "Digging" by Seamus Heaney Visit Seamus Heaney's Page Read Poem

  Between my finger and my thumb
  The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.
  
  Under my window, a clean rasping sound
  When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:
  My father, digging.
  
  I look down
  
  Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds
  Bends low, comes up twenty years away
  Stooping in rhythm through potato drills
  Where he was digging.
  
  The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft
  Against the inside knee was levered firmly.
  
  He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep
  To scatter new potatoes that we picked,
  Loving their cool hardness in our hands.
  
  By God, the old man could handle a spade.
  
  Just like his old man.
  
  My grandfather cut more turf in a day
  Than any other man on Toner’s bog.
  
  Once I carried him milk in a bottle
  Corked sloppily with paper.
  
  He straightened up
  To drink it, then fell to right away
  Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
  Over his shoulder, going down and down
  For the good turf.
  
  Digging.
  
  The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap
  Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
  Through living roots awaken in my head.
  
  But I’ve no spade to follow men like them.
  
  Between my finger and my thumb
  The squat pen rests.
  
  I’ll dig with it.

• "Blackberry-Picking" by Seamus Heaney Visit Seamus Heaney's Page Read Poem

  Late August, given heavy rain and sun
  For a full week, the blackberries would ripen.
  
  At first, just one, a glossy purple clot
  Among others, red, green, hard as a knot.
  
  You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet
  Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it
  Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for
  Picking.
  
  Then red ones inked up and that hunger
  Sent us out with milk cans, pea tins, jam-pots
  Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots.
  
  Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills
  We trekked and picked until the cans were full,
  Until the tinkling bottom had been covered
  With green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned
  Like a plate of eyes.
  
  Our hands were peppered
  With thorn pricks, our palms sticky as Bluebeard's.
  
  We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre.
  
  But when the bath was filled we found a fur,
  A rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache.
  
  The juice was stinking too.
  
  Once off the bush
  The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour.
  
  I always felt like crying.
  
  It wasn't fair
  That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot.
  
  Each year I hoped they'd keep, knew they would not.

• "The Pet-Lamb" by William Wordsworth Visit William Wordsworth's Page Read Poem

  A PASTORAL
  THE dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink;
  I heard a voice; it said, "Drink, pretty creature, drink!"
  And, looking o'er the hedge, before me I espied
  A snow-white mountain-lamb with a Maiden at its side.
  
  Nor sheep nor kine were near; the lamb was all alone,
  And by a slender cord was tethered to a stone;
  With one knee on the grass did the little Maiden kneel,
  While to that mountain-lamb she gave its evening meal.
  
  The lamb, while from her hand he thus his supper took,
  Seemed to feast with head and ears; and his tail with pleasure shook.
  
  "Drink, pretty creature, drink," she said in such a tone
  That I almost received her heart into my own.
  
  'Twas little Barbara Lewthwaite, a child of beauty rare!
  I watched them with delight, they were a lovely pair.
  
  Now with her empty can the Maiden turned away:
  But ere ten yards were gone her footsteps did she stay.
  
  Right towards the lamb she looked; and from a shady place
  I unobserved could see the workings of her face:
  If Nature to her tongue could measured numbers bring,
  Thus, thought I, to her lamb that little Maid might sing:
  "What ails thee, young One?
  
  what?
  
  Why pull so at thy cord?
  
  Is it not well with thee?
  
  well both for bed and board?
  
  Thy plot of grass is soft, and green as grass can be;
  Rest, little young One, rest; what is't that aileth thee?
  
  "What is it thou wouldst seek?
  
  What is wanting to thy heart?
  
  Thy limbs are they not strong?
  
  And beautiful thou art:
  This grass is tender grass; these flowers they have no peers;
  And that green corn all day is rustling in thy ears!
  "If the sun be shining hot, do but stretch thy woollen chain,
  This beech is standing by, its covert thou canst gain;
  For rain and mountain-storms! the like thou need'st not fear,
  The rain and storm are things that scarcely can come here.
  
  "Rest, little young One, rest; thou hast forgot the day
  When my father found thee first in places far away;
  Many flocks were on the hills, but thou wert owned by none,
  And thy mother from thy side for evermore was gone.
  
  "He took thee in his arms, and in pity brought thee home:
  A blessed day for thee! then whither wouldst thou roam?
  
  A faithful nurse thou hast; the dam that did thee yean
  Upon the mountain-tops no kinder could have been.
  
  "Thou know'st that twice a day I have brought thee in this can
  Fresh water from the brook, as clear as ever ran;
  And twice in the day, when the ground is wet with dew,
  I bring thee draughts of milk, warm milk it is and new.
  
  "Thy limbs will shortly be twice as stout as they are now,
  Then I'll yoke thee to my cart like a pony in the plough;
  My playmate thou shalt be; and when the wind is cold
  Our hearth shall be thy bed, our house shall be thy fold.
  
  "It will not, will not rest!--Poor creature, can it be
  That 'tis thy mother's heart which is working so in thee?
  
  Things that I know not of belike to thee are dear,
  And dreams of things which thou canst neither see nor hear.
  
  "Alas, the mountain-tops that look so green and fair!
  I've heard of fearful winds and darkness that come there;
  The little brooks that seem all pastime and all play,
  When they are angry, roar like lions for their prey.
  
  "Here thou need'st not dread the raven in the sky;
  Night and day thou art safe,--our cottage is hard by.
  
  Why bleat so after me?
  
  Why pull so at thy chain?
  
  Sleep--and at break of day I will come to thee again!"
  --As homeward through the lane I went with lazy feet,
  This song to myself did I oftentimes repeat;
  And it seemed, as I retraced the ballad line by line,
  That but half of it was hers, and one half of it was 'mine'.
  
  Again, and once again, did I repeat the song;
  "Nay," said I, "more than half to the damsel must belong,
  For she looked with such a look and she spake with such a tone,
  That I almost received her heart into my own.
  
  "

• "These I Can Promise" by Mark Twain Visit Mark Twain's Page Read Poem

  I cannot promise you a life of sunshine;
  I cannot promise riches, wealth, or gold;
  I cannot promise you an easy pathway
  That leads away from change or growing old.
  But I can promise all my heart's devotion;
  A smile to chase away your tears of sorrow;
  A love that's ever true and ever growing;
  A hand to hold in yours through each tomorrow.

• "Daffodils" by William Wordsworth Visit William Wordsworth's Page Read Poem

  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
  Outdid the sparkling waves in glee:
  A poet could not but be 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.

• "Composed on The Eve Of The Marriage Of A Friend In The Vale Of Grasmere" by William Wordsworth Visit William Wordsworth's Page Read Poem

  WHAT need of clamorous bells, or ribands gay,
  These humble nuptials to proclaim or grace?
  
  Angels of love, look down upon the place;
  Shed on the chosen vale a sun-bright day!
  Yet no proud gladness would the Bride display
  Even for such promise:--serious is her face,
  Modest her mien; and she, whose thoughts keep pace
  With gentleness, in that becoming way
  Will thank you.
  
  Faultless does the Maid appear;
  No disproportion in her soul, no strife:
  But, when the closer view of wedded life
  Hath shown that nothing human can be clear
  From frailty, for that insight may the Wife
  To her indulgent Lord become more dear.

• "Inside of King's College Chapel, Cambridge" by William Wordsworth Visit William Wordsworth's Page Read Poem

  Tax not the royal Saint with vain expense,
  With ill-matched aims the Architect who planned—
  Albeit labouring for a scanty band
  Of white-robed Scholars only—this immense
  And glorious Work of fine intelligence!
  Give all thou canst; high Heaven rejects the lore
  Of nicely-calculated less or more;
  So deemed the man who fashioned for the sense
  These lofty pillars, spread that branching roof
  Self-poised, and scooped into ten thousand cells,
  Where light and shade repose, where music dwells
  Lingering—and wandering on as loth to die;
  Like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proof
  That they were born for immortality.

• "It was an April morning: fresh and clear" by William Wordsworth Visit William Wordsworth's Page Read Poem

  It was an April morning: fresh and clear
  The Rivulet, delighting in its strength,
  Ran with a young man's speed; and yet the voice
  Of waters which the winter had supplied
  Was softened down into a vernal tone.
  
  The spirit of enjoyment and desire,
  And hopes and wishes, from all living things
  Went circling, like a multitude of sounds.
  
  The budding groves seemed eager to urge on
  The steps of June; as if their various hues
  Were only hindrances that stood between
  Them and their object: but, meanwhile, prevailed
  Such an entire contentment in the air
  That every naked ash, and tardy tree
  Yet leafless, showed as if the countenance
  With which it looked on this delightful day
  Were native to the summer.
  
  —Up the brook
  I roamed in the confusion of my heart,
  Alive to all things and forgetting all.
  
  At length I to a sudden turning came
  In this continuous glen, where down a rock
  The Stream, so ardent in its course before,
  Sent forth such sallies of glad sound, that all
  Which I till then had heard, appeared the voice
  Of common pleasure: beast and bird, the lamb,
  The shepherd's dog, the linnet and the thrush
  Vied with this waterfall, and made a song,
  Which, while I listened, seemed like the wild growth
  Or like some natural produce of the air,
  That could not cease to be.
  
  Green leaves were here;
  But 'twas the foliage of the rocks—the birch,
  The yew, the holly, and the bright green thorn,
  With hanging islands of resplendent furze:
  And, on a summit, distant a short space,
  By any who should look beyond the dell,
  A single mountain-cottage might be seen.
  
  I gazed and gazed, and to myself I said,
  "Our thoughts at least are ours; and this wild nook,
  My EMMA, I will dedicate to thee.
  
  "
  ——Soon did the spot become my other home,
  My dwelling, and my out-of-doors abode.
  
  And, of the Shepherds who have seen me there,
  To whom I sometimes in our idle talk
  Have told this fancy, two or three, perhaps,
  Years after we are gone and in our graves,
  When they have cause to speak of this wild place,
  May call it by the name of EMMA'S DELL.

• "The Faëry Chasm" by William Wordsworth Visit William Wordsworth's Page Read Poem

  No fiction was it of the antique age:
  A sky-blue stone, within this sunless cleft,
  Is of the very footmarks unbereft
  Which tiny Elves impressed; - on that smooth stage
  Dancing with all their brilliant equipage
  In secret revels - haply after theft
  Of some sweet Babe - Flower stolen, and coarse Weed left
  For the distracted Mother to assuage
  Her grief with, as she might! - But, where, oh! where
  Is traceable a vestige of the notes
  That ruled those dances wild in character?
  
  -
  Deep underground?
  
  Or in the upper air,
  On the shrill wind of midnight?
  
  or where floats
  O'er twilight fields the autumnal gossamer?

• "A Celtic Blessing" by Anonymous Irish Visit Anonymous Irish's Page Read Poem

  May the light of your soul guide you.
  
  May the light of your soul bless the work that you do
  with the secret love and warmth of your heart.
  
  May you see in what you do the beauty of your own soul.
  
  May the sacredness of your work bring healing, light
  and renewal to those who work with you
  and to those who see and receive your work.
  
  May your work never weary you.
  
  May it release within you wellsprings of
  refreshment, inspiration and excitement.
  
  May you be present in what you do.
  
  May you never become lost in bland absences.
  
  May the day never burden.
  
  May dawn find you awake and alert,
  approaching your new day with dreams, possibilities and promises.
  
  May evening find you gracious and fulfilled.
  
  May you go into the night blessed, sheltered and protected.
  
  May your soul calm, console and renew you.

• "A Celtic Prayer" by Anonymous Irish Visit Anonymous Irish's Page Read Poem

  Deep peace of the
  running waves to you.
  
  Deep peace of the
  flowing air to you.
  
  Deep peace of the
  quiet earth to you.
  
  Deep peace of the
  shining stars to you.
  
  Deep peace of the
  Son of Peace to you.

• "An Irish Blessing" by Anonymous Irish Visit Anonymous Irish's Page Read Poem

  May there always be work for your hands to do;
  May your purse always hold a coin or two;
  May the sun always shine on your windowpane;
  May a rainbow be certain to follow each rain;
  May the hand of a friend always be near you;
  May God fill your heart with gladness to cheer you.

• "Danny Boy" by Anonymous Irish Visit Anonymous Irish's Page Read Poem

  Oh Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling
  From glen to glen, and down the mountain side
  The summer's gone, and all the flowers are dying
  'Tis you, 'tis you must go and I must bide.
  
  But come ye back when summer's in the meadow
  Or when the valley's hushed and white with snow
  'Tis I'll be here in sunshine or in shadow
  Oh Danny boy, oh Danny boy, I love you so.
  
  And if you come, when all the flowers are dying
  And I am dead, as dead I well may be
  You'll come and find the place where I am lying
  And kneel and say an "Ave" there for me.
  
  And I shall hear, tho' soft you tread above me
  And all my dreams will warm and sweeter be
  If you'll not fail to tell me that you love me
  I'll simply sleep in peace until you come to me.
  
  I'll simply sleep in peace until you come to me.

• "These I Can Promise" by Mark Twain Visit Mark Twain's Page Read Poem

  I cannot promise you a life of sunshine;
  I cannot promise riches, wealth, or gold;
  I cannot promise you an easy pathway
  That leads away from change or growing old.
  But I can promise all my heart's devotion;
  A smile to chase away your tears of sorrow;
  A love that's ever true and ever growing;
  A hand to hold in yours through each tomorrow.

• "Digging" by Seamus Heaney Visit Seamus Heaney's Page Read Poem

  Between my finger and my thumb
  The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.
  
  Under my window, a clean rasping sound
  When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:
  My father, digging.
  
  I look down
  
  Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds
  Bends low, comes up twenty years away
  Stooping in rhythm through potato drills
  Where he was digging.
  
  The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft
  Against the inside knee was levered firmly.
  
  He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep
  To scatter new potatoes that we picked,
  Loving their cool hardness in our hands.
  
  By God, the old man could handle a spade.
  
  Just like his old man.
  
  My grandfather cut more turf in a day
  Than any other man on Toner’s bog.
  
  Once I carried him milk in a bottle
  Corked sloppily with paper.
  
  He straightened up
  To drink it, then fell to right away
  Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
  Over his shoulder, going down and down
  For the good turf.
  
  Digging.
  
  The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap
  Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
  Through living roots awaken in my head.
  
  But I’ve no spade to follow men like them.
  
  Between my finger and my thumb
  The squat pen rests.
  
  I’ll dig with it.

• "Blackberry-Picking" by Seamus Heaney Visit Seamus Heaney's Page Read Poem

  Late August, given heavy rain and sun
  For a full week, the blackberries would ripen.
  
  At first, just one, a glossy purple clot
  Among others, red, green, hard as a knot.
  
  You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet
  Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it
  Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for
  Picking.
  
  Then red ones inked up and that hunger
  Sent us out with milk cans, pea tins, jam-pots
  Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots.
  
  Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills
  We trekked and picked until the cans were full,
  Until the tinkling bottom had been covered
  With green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned
  Like a plate of eyes.
  
  Our hands were peppered
  With thorn pricks, our palms sticky as Bluebeard's.
  
  We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre.
  
  But when the bath was filled we found a fur,
  A rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache.
  
  The juice was stinking too.
  
  Once off the bush
  The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour.
  
  I always felt like crying.
  
  It wasn't fair
  That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot.
  
  Each year I hoped they'd keep, knew they would not.

• "The Pet-Lamb" by William Wordsworth Visit William Wordsworth's Page Read Poem

  A PASTORAL
  THE dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink;
  I heard a voice; it said, "Drink, pretty creature, drink!"
  And, looking o'er the hedge, before me I espied
  A snow-white mountain-lamb with a Maiden at its side.
  
  Nor sheep nor kine were near; the lamb was all alone,
  And by a slender cord was tethered to a stone;
  With one knee on the grass did the little Maiden kneel,
  While to that mountain-lamb she gave its evening meal.
  
  The lamb, while from her hand he thus his supper took,
  Seemed to feast with head and ears; and his tail with pleasure shook.
  
  "Drink, pretty creature, drink," she said in such a tone
  That I almost received her heart into my own.
  
  'Twas little Barbara Lewthwaite, a child of beauty rare!
  I watched them with delight, they were a lovely pair.
  
  Now with her empty can the Maiden turned away:
  But ere ten yards were gone her footsteps did she stay.
  
  Right towards the lamb she looked; and from a shady place
  I unobserved could see the workings of her face:
  If Nature to her tongue could measured numbers bring,
  Thus, thought I, to her lamb that little Maid might sing:
  "What ails thee, young One?
  
  what?
  
  Why pull so at thy cord?
  
  Is it not well with thee?
  
  well both for bed and board?
  
  Thy plot of grass is soft, and green as grass can be;
  Rest, little young One, rest; what is't that aileth thee?
  
  "What is it thou wouldst seek?
  
  What is wanting to thy heart?
  
  Thy limbs are they not strong?
  
  And beautiful thou art:
  This grass is tender grass; these flowers they have no peers;
  And that green corn all day is rustling in thy ears!
  "If the sun be shining hot, do but stretch thy woollen chain,
  This beech is standing by, its covert thou canst gain;
  For rain and mountain-storms! the like thou need'st not fear,
  The rain and storm are things that scarcely can come here.
  
  "Rest, little young One, rest; thou hast forgot the day
  When my father found thee first in places far away;
  Many flocks were on the hills, but thou wert owned by none,
  And thy mother from thy side for evermore was gone.
  
  "He took thee in his arms, and in pity brought thee home:
  A blessed day for thee! then whither wouldst thou roam?
  
  A faithful nurse thou hast; the dam that did thee yean
  Upon the mountain-tops no kinder could have been.
  
  "Thou know'st that twice a day I have brought thee in this can
  Fresh water from the brook, as clear as ever ran;
  And twice in the day, when the ground is wet with dew,
  I bring thee draughts of milk, warm milk it is and new.
  
  "Thy limbs will shortly be twice as stout as they are now,
  Then I'll yoke thee to my cart like a pony in the plough;
  My playmate thou shalt be; and when the wind is cold
  Our hearth shall be thy bed, our house shall be thy fold.
  
  "It will not, will not rest!--Poor creature, can it be
  That 'tis thy mother's heart which is working so in thee?
  
  Things that I know not of belike to thee are dear,
  And dreams of things which thou canst neither see nor hear.
  
  "Alas, the mountain-tops that look so green and fair!
  I've heard of fearful winds and darkness that come there;
  The little brooks that seem all pastime and all play,
  When they are angry, roar like lions for their prey.
  
  "Here thou need'st not dread the raven in the sky;
  Night and day thou art safe,--our cottage is hard by.
  
  Why bleat so after me?
  
  Why pull so at thy chain?
  
  Sleep--and at break of day I will come to thee again!"
  --As homeward through the lane I went with lazy feet,
  This song to myself did I oftentimes repeat;
  And it seemed, as I retraced the ballad line by line,
  That but half of it was hers, and one half of it was 'mine'.
  
  Again, and once again, did I repeat the song;
  "Nay," said I, "more than half to the damsel must belong,
  For she looked with such a look and she spake with such a tone,
  That I almost received her heart into my own.
  
  "

• "Daffodils" by William Wordsworth Visit William Wordsworth's Page Read Poem

  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
  Outdid the sparkling waves in glee:
  A poet could not but be 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.

• "Composed on The Eve Of The Marriage Of A Friend In The Vale Of Grasmere" by William Wordsworth Visit William Wordsworth's Page Read Poem

  WHAT need of clamorous bells, or ribands gay,
  These humble nuptials to proclaim or grace?
  
  Angels of love, look down upon the place;
  Shed on the chosen vale a sun-bright day!
  Yet no proud gladness would the Bride display
  Even for such promise:--serious is her face,
  Modest her mien; and she, whose thoughts keep pace
  With gentleness, in that becoming way
  Will thank you.
  
  Faultless does the Maid appear;
  No disproportion in her soul, no strife:
  But, when the closer view of wedded life
  Hath shown that nothing human can be clear
  From frailty, for that insight may the Wife
  To her indulgent Lord become more dear.

• "Inside of King's College Chapel, Cambridge" by William Wordsworth Visit William Wordsworth's Page Read Poem

  Tax not the royal Saint with vain expense,
  With ill-matched aims the Architect who planned—
  Albeit labouring for a scanty band
  Of white-robed Scholars only—this immense
  And glorious Work of fine intelligence!
  Give all thou canst; high Heaven rejects the lore
  Of nicely-calculated less or more;
  So deemed the man who fashioned for the sense
  These lofty pillars, spread that branching roof
  Self-poised, and scooped into ten thousand cells,
  Where light and shade repose, where music dwells
  Lingering—and wandering on as loth to die;
  Like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proof
  That they were born for immortality.

• "It was an April morning: fresh and clear" by William Wordsworth Visit William Wordsworth's Page Read Poem

  It was an April morning: fresh and clear
  The Rivulet, delighting in its strength,
  Ran with a young man's speed; and yet the voice
  Of waters which the winter had supplied
  Was softened down into a vernal tone.
  
  The spirit of enjoyment and desire,
  And hopes and wishes, from all living things
  Went circling, like a multitude of sounds.
  
  The budding groves seemed eager to urge on
  The steps of June; as if their various hues
  Were only hindrances that stood between
  Them and their object: but, meanwhile, prevailed
  Such an entire contentment in the air
  That every naked ash, and tardy tree
  Yet leafless, showed as if the countenance
  With which it looked on this delightful day
  Were native to the summer.
  
  —Up the brook
  I roamed in the confusion of my heart,
  Alive to all things and forgetting all.
  
  At length I to a sudden turning came
  In this continuous glen, where down a rock
  The Stream, so ardent in its course before,
  Sent forth such sallies of glad sound, that all
  Which I till then had heard, appeared the voice
  Of common pleasure: beast and bird, the lamb,
  The shepherd's dog, the linnet and the thrush
  Vied with this waterfall, and made a song,
  Which, while I listened, seemed like the wild growth
  Or like some natural produce of the air,
  That could not cease to be.
  
  Green leaves were here;
  But 'twas the foliage of the rocks—the birch,
  The yew, the holly, and the bright green thorn,
  With hanging islands of resplendent furze:
  And, on a summit, distant a short space,
  By any who should look beyond the dell,
  A single mountain-cottage might be seen.
  
  I gazed and gazed, and to myself I said,
  "Our thoughts at least are ours; and this wild nook,
  My EMMA, I will dedicate to thee.
  
  "
  ——Soon did the spot become my other home,
  My dwelling, and my out-of-doors abode.
  
  And, of the Shepherds who have seen me there,
  To whom I sometimes in our idle talk
  Have told this fancy, two or three, perhaps,
  Years after we are gone and in our graves,
  When they have cause to speak of this wild place,
  May call it by the name of EMMA'S DELL.

• "The Faëry Chasm" by William Wordsworth Visit William Wordsworth's Page Read Poem

  No fiction was it of the antique age:
  A sky-blue stone, within this sunless cleft,
  Is of the very footmarks unbereft
  Which tiny Elves impressed; - on that smooth stage
  Dancing with all their brilliant equipage
  In secret revels - haply after theft
  Of some sweet Babe - Flower stolen, and coarse Weed left
  For the distracted Mother to assuage
  Her grief with, as she might! - But, where, oh! where
  Is traceable a vestige of the notes
  That ruled those dances wild in character?
  
  -
  Deep underground?
  
  Or in the upper air,
  On the shrill wind of midnight?
  
  or where floats
  O'er twilight fields the autumnal gossamer?

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