Hark, hearer, hear what I do; len… We are leafwhelmed somewhere with… Of some branchy bunchy bushybowere… Southern dene or Lancashire cloug… That leans along the loins of hill…
Wild air, world—mothering air, Nestling me everywhere, That each eyelash or hair Girdles; goes home betwixt The fleeciest, frailest—flixed
TOWERY city and branchy between… Cuckoo—echoing, bell—swarmèd, lark… The dapple—eared lily below thee;… Once encounter in, here coped and… Thou hast a base and brickish skir…
My window shews the travelling clo… Leaves spent, new seasons, alter’d… The making and the melting crowds: The whole world passes; I stand b… They do not waste their meted hour…
Márgarét, áre you gríeving Over Goldengrove unleaving? Leáves like the things of man, you With your fresh thoughts care for,… Ah! ás the heart grows older
As a dare—gale skylark scanted in… Man’s mounting spirit in his bone—… That bird beyond the remembering h… This in drudgery, day—labouring—ou… Though aloft on turf or perch or p…
The world is charged with the gran… It will flame out, like shining fr… It gathers to a greatness, like th… Crushed. Why do men then now not… Generations have trod, have trod,…
Margaret, are you grieving Over Goldengrove unleaving? Leaves, like the things of man, yo… With your fresh thoughts care for,… Ah! as the heart grows older
Teevo cheevo cheevio chee: O where, what can tháat be? Weedio—weedio: there again! So tiny a trickle of sóng—strain; And all round not to be found
I remember a house where all were… To me, God knows, deserving no su… Comforting smell breathed at very… Fetched fresh, as I suppose, off… That cordial air made those kind p…
THIS darksome burn, horseback br… His rollrock highroad roaring down… In coop and in comb the fleece of… Flutes and low to the lake falls h… A windpuff—bonnet of fáwn—fróth
Elected Silence, sing to me And beat upon my whorlèd ear, Pipe me to pastures still and be The music that I care to hear. Shape nothing, lips; be lovely—dum…
‘The child is father to the man.’ How can he be? The words are wild… Suck any sense from that who can: ‘The child is father to the man. No; what the poet did write ran,
Love I was shewn upon the mountai… And bid to catch Him ere the drop… See, Love, I creep and Thou on w… Love it is evening now and Thou a… Love, it grows darker here and Th…
Let me be to Thee as the circling… Or bat with tender and air—crispin… That shapes in half—light his depa… From both of whom a changeless not… I have found my music in a common…