| WILLIAM WORDSWORTH (1770-1850 he is on or near the top of my favorites…his descriptions are so….and his messages are so….ohhh!) | |||||||||||||||||
| INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY | SHE DWELT AMONG THE UNTRODDEN WAYS | ||||||||||||||||
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William Wordsworth (1770-1850 he is on or near the top of my favorites…his descriptions are so….and his messages are so….ohhh!) Intimations of Immortality From Recollections Of Early Childhood I. There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, The earth, and every common sight, To me did seem Appareled in celestial light, The glory and freshness of a dream. It is not now as it hath been of yore;-- Turn wheresoe’er I may, By night or day, The things I have seen I now can see no more. II. The Rainbow comes and goes, And lovely is the Rose, The Moon doth with delight Look round her when the heavens are bare, Waters on a starry night Are beautiful and fair; The sunshine is a glorious birth; But yet I know, where’er I go, That there hath past away a glory from the earth. XI. And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills and Groves Forebode not any severing of our loves! Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might; I only have relinquished one delight To live beneath your more habitual sway. I love the Brooks which down their channels fret, Even more than when I tripped lightly as they; The innocent brightness of a new-born Day Is lovely yet; The Clouds that gather round the setting sun Do take a sober colouring from an eye That hath kept watch o’er man’s mortality; Another race hath been, and other palms are won. Thanks to the human heart by which we live, Thanks to its tenderness, its joys and fears. To me the meanest flower that blows can give Thoughts that do often lie to deep for tears |
SHE DWELT AMONG THE UNTRODDEN WAYS (I personally love this poem with a passion…I feel it) She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love A violet by a mossy stone Half hidden from the eye! Fair as a star, when only one Is shining in the sky. She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be; But she is in her grave, and oh, The difference to me! | ||||||||||||||||
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