COLLECTION OF MY FAVOURITE POEMS-part 1

LUCY

OFT I had heard of Lucy Gray:

And, when I crossed the wild,

I chanced to see at break of day

The solitary child.

No mate, no comrade Lucy knew;

She dwelt on a wide moor,

--The sweetest thing that ever grew

Beside a human door!

You yet may spy the fawn at play,

The hare upon the green;

But the sweet face of Lucy Gray

Will never more be seen.

"To-night will be a stormy night--

You to the town must go;

And take a lantern, Child, to light

Your mother through the snow."

"That, Father! will I gladly do:

'Tis scarcely afternoon--

The minster-clock has just struck two,

And yonder is the moon!"

At this the Father raised his hook,

And snapped a faggot-band;

He plied his work;--and Lucy took

The lantern in her hand.

Not blither is the mountain roe:

With many a wanton stroke

Her feet disperse the powdery snow,

That rises up like smoke.

The storm came on before its time:

She wandered up and down;

And many a hill did Lucy climb:

But never reached the town.

The wretched parents all that night

Went shouting far and wide;

But there was neither sound nor sight

To serve them for a guide.

At day-break on a hill they stood

That overlooked the moor;

And thence they saw the bridge of wood,

A furlong from their door.

They wept--and, turning homeward, cried,

"In heaven we all shall meet;"

--When in the snow the mother spied

The print of Lucy's feet.

Then downwards from the steep hill's edge

They tracked the footmarks small;

And through the broken hawthorn hedge,

And by the long stone-wall;

And then an open field they crossed:

The marks were still the same;

They tracked them on, nor ever lost;

And to the bridge they came.

They followed from the snowy bank

Those footmarks, one by one,

Into the middle of the plank;

And further there were none!

--Yet some maintain that to this day

She is a living child;

That you may see sweet Lucy Gray

Upon the lonesome wild.

O' er rough and smooth she trips along,

And never looks behind;

And sings a solitary song

That whistles in the wind.

*****WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

THE SAILOR'S MOTHER

One morning (raw it was and wet,

A foggy day in winter time)

A Woman in the road I met,

Not old, though something past her prime:

Majestic in her person, tall and straight;

And like a Roman matron's was her mien and gait.

The ancient Spirit is not dead;

Old times, thought I, are breathing there;

Proud was I that my country bred

Such strength, a dignity so fair:

She begg'd an alms, like one in poor estate;

I look'd at her again, nor did my pride abate.

When from these lofty thoughts I woke,

With the first word I had to spare

I said to her, "Beneath your Cloak

What's that which on your arm you bear?"

She answer'd soon as she the question heard,

"A simple burthen, Sir, a little Singing-bird."

And, thus continuing, she said,

"I had a Son, who many a day

Sail'd on the seas; but he is dead;

In Denmark he was cast away;

And I have been as far as Hull, to see

What clothes he might have left, or other property."

"The Bird and Cage they both were his;

'Twas my Son's Bird; and neat and trim

He kept it: many voyages

This Singing-bird hath gone with him;

When last he sail'd he left the Bird behind;

As it might be, perhaps, from bodings of his mind."

"He to a Fellow-lodger's care

Had left it, to be watch'd and fed,

Till he came back again; and there

I found it when my Son was dead;

And now, God help me for my little wit!

I trail it with me, Sir! he took so much delight in it."

*****WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

I WANDERED LONELY AS A CLOUD

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 a never-ending line
Along the margin of the bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced, but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:-
A poet cannot 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.

******William Wordsworth

HOME THEY BROUGHT THE WARRIOR DEAD

Home they brought the warrior dead
She nor swooned, nor uttered a cry
All her maidens, watching, said,
‘She must weep or she will die’.

Then they praised him; soft and low
Call’d him worthy to be loved,
Truest friend and noblest foe,
Yet she neither spoke nor moved.

Stole a maiden from her place,
Lightly to the warrior slept,
Took the face- cloth from the face,
Yet she neither moved nor wept.

Rose a nurse of ninety years,
Set his child upon her knee
Like summer tempest came her tears
‘Sweet my child, I live for thee.’

*****anonymous