William Wordsworth ( 10 of 90 )
I heard a Stock-dove sing or say
His homely tale, this very day;
His voice was buried read more
I heard a Stock-dove sing or say
His homely tale, this very day;
His voice was buried among trees,
Yet to be come at by the breeze:
He did not cease; but cooed--and cooed:
And somewhat pensively he wooed:
He sang of love, with quiet blending,
Slow to begin, and never ending;
Of serious faith, and inward glee;
That was the song,--the song for me!
Golf is a day spent in a round of strenuous idleness.
Golf is a day spent in a round of strenuous idleness.
Sweet Mercy! to the gates of Heaven
This minstrel lead, his sins forgiven;
The rueful conflict, the read more
Sweet Mercy! to the gates of Heaven
This minstrel lead, his sins forgiven;
The rueful conflict, the heart riven
With vain endeavour,
And memory of earth's bitter leaven
Effaced forever.
The primal duties shine aloft, like stars;
The charities that soothe, and heal, and bless
Are scattered read more
The primal duties shine aloft, like stars;
The charities that soothe, and heal, and bless
Are scattered at the feet of Man, like flowers.
Like--but oh! how different!
Like--but oh! how different!
Or shipwrecked, kindles on the coast
False fires, that others may be lost.
Or shipwrecked, kindles on the coast
False fires, that others may be lost.
Much converse do I find in thee,
Historian of my infancy!
Float near me; do not yet read more
Much converse do I find in thee,
Historian of my infancy!
Float near me; do not yet depart!
Dead times revive in thee:
Thou bring'st, gay creature as thou art!
A solemn image to my heart.
Meek Nature's evening comment on the shows
That for oblivion that their daily birth
From all the read more
Meek Nature's evening comment on the shows
That for oblivion that their daily birth
From all the fuming vanities of earth.
I look for ghosts; but none will force
Their way to me; 'tis falsely said
That even read more
I look for ghosts; but none will force
Their way to me; 'tis falsely said
That even there was intercourse
Between the living and the dead.
Up from the sea, the wild north wind is blowing
Under the sky's gray arch;
Smiling I read more
Up from the sea, the wild north wind is blowing
Under the sky's gray arch;
Smiling I watch the shaken elm boughs, knowing
It is the wind of March.
