The Lucy poems-V

A slumber did my spirit seal;

I had no human fears:

She seem'd a thing that could not feel

The touch of earthly years.

No motion has she now, no force;

She neither hears nor sees;

Roll'd round in earth's diurnal course,

With rocks, and stones, and trees.

The Lucy poems-IV

Three years she grew in sun and shower; 

Then Nature said, 'A lovelier flower 

On earth was never sown; 

This child I to myself will take; 

She shall be mine, and I will make 

A lady of my own.

 

'Myself will to my darling be 

Both law and impulse; and with me 

The girl, in rock and plain, 

In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, 

Shall feel an overseeing power 

To kindle or restrain.

 

'She shall be sportive as the fawn 

That wild with glee across the lawn 

Or up the mountain springs; 

And hers shall be the breathing balm, 

And hers the silence and the calm 

Of mute insensate things.

 

'The floating clouds their state shall lend 

To her; for her the willow bend; 

Nor shall she fail to see 

Even in the motions of the storm 

Grace that shall mould the maiden's form 

By silent sympathy.

 

'The stars of midnight shall be dear 

To her; and she shall lean her ear 

In many a secret place 

Where rivulets dance their wayward round, 

And beauty born of murmuring sound 

Shall pass into her face.

'And vital feelings of delight

Shall rear her form to stately height,

Her virgin bosom swell;

Such thoughts to Lucy I will give

While she and I together live
Here in this happy dell.'

Thus Nature spake -- The work was done --

How soon my Lucy's race was run!

She died, and left to me

This heath, this calm and quiet scene;

The memory of what has been,

And never more will be.

The Lucy poems-III

I travell'd among unknown men, 

In lands beyond the sea; 

Nor, England! did I know till then 

What love I bore to thee.

 

'Tis past, that melancholy dream! 

Nor will I quit thy shore 

A second time; for still I seem 

To love thee more and more.

Among the mountains did I feel 

The joy of my desire; 

And she I cherish'd turn'd her wheel 

Beside an English fire.

 

Thy mornings show'd, thy nights conceal'd, 

The bowers where Lucy play'd; 

And thine too is the last green field 

That Lucy's eyes survey'd.

The Lucy poems-II

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!

The Lucy poems-I

Strange fits of passion have I known: 

And I will dare to tell, 

But in the lover's ear alone,

What once to me befell.

When she I loved look'd every day 

Fresh as a rose in June, 

I to her cottage bent my way, 

Beneath an evening moon. 

Upon the moon I fix'd my eye, 

All over the wide lea; 

With quickening pace my horse drew nigh 

Those paths so dear to me. 

And now we reach'd the orchard-plot; 

And, as we climb'd the hill, 

The sinking moon to Lucy's cot 

Came near and nearer still. 

In one of those sweet dreams I slept,

Kind Nature's gentlest boon! 

And all the while my eyes I kept 

On the descending moon. 

My horse moved on;

hoof after hoof He raised, 

and never stopp'd: 

When down behind the cottage roof, 

At once, the bright moon dropp'd. 

What fond and wayward thoughts will slide 

Into a lover's head! 

'O mercy!' to myself I cried, 

'If Lucy should be dead!'

We Are Seven

A simple Child,


That lightly draws its breath,


And feels its life in every limb,


What should it know of death?






I met a little cottage Girl:


She was eight years old, she said;


Her hair was thick with many a curl


That clustered round her head.






She had a rustic, woodland air,


And she was wildly clad:


Her eyes were fair, and very fair;


—Her beauty made me glad.






“Sisters and brothers, little Maid,


How many may you be?”


“How many? Seven in all,” she said,


And wondering looked at me.






“And where are they? I pray you tell.”


She answered, “Seven are we;


And two of us at Conway dwell,


And two are gone to sea.






“Two of us in the church-yard lie,


My sister and my brother;


And, in the church-yard cottage, I


Dwell near them with my mother.”






“You say that two at Conway dwell,


And two are gone to sea,


Yet ye are seven! I pray you tell,


Sweet Maid, how this may be.”






Then did the little Maid reply,


“Seven boys and girls are we;


Two of us in the church-yard lie,


Beneath the church-yard tree.”






“You run about, my little Maid,


Your limbs they are alive;


If two are in the church-yard laid,


Then ye are only five.”






“Their graves are green, they may be seen,”


The little Maid replied,


“Twelve steps or more from my mother’s door,


And they are side by side.






“My stockings there I often knit,


My kerchief there I hem;


And there upon the ground I sit,


And sing a song to them.






“And often after sun-set, Sir,


When it is light and fair,


I take my little porringer,


And eat my supper there.






“The first that died was sister Jane;


In bed she moaning lay,


Till God released her of her pain;


And then she went away.






“So in the church-yard she was laid;


And, when the grass was dry,


Together round her grave we played,


My brother John and I.






“And when the ground was white with snow,


And I could run and slide,


My brother John was forced to go,


And he lies by her side.”






“How many are you, then,” said I,


“If they two are in heaven?”


Quick was the little Maid’s reply,


“O Master! we are seven.”






“But they are dead; those two are dead!


Their spirits are in heaven!”


’Twas throwing words away; for still


The little Maid would have her will,


And said, “Nay, we are seven!”

The Tables Turned

Up! up! my Friend, and quit your books;


Or surely you'll grow double:


Up! up! my Friend, and clear your looks;


Why all this toil and trouble?






The sun above the mountain's head,


A freshening lustre mellow


Through all the long green fields has spread,


His first sweet evening yellow.






Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife:


Come, hear the woodland linnet,


How sweet his music! on my life,


There's more of wisdom in it.






And hark! how blithe the throstle sings!


He, too, is no mean preacher:


Come forth into the light of things,


Let Nature be your teacher.






She has a world of ready wealth,


Our minds and hearts to bless—


Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health,


Truth breathed by cheerfulness.






One impulse from a vernal wood


May teach you more of man,


Of moral evil and of good,


Than all the sages can.






Sweet is the lore which Nature brings;


Our meddling intellect


Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things:—


We murder to dissect.






Enough of Science and of Art;


Close up those barren leaves;


Come forth, and bring with you a heart


That watches and receives.

The Solitary Reaper

Behold her, single in the field, 

Yon solitary Highland Lass!

Reaping and singing by herself;

Stop here, or gently pass!

Alone she cuts and binds the grain,

And sings a melancholy strain;

O listen! for the Vale profound

Is overflowing with the sound.

No Nightingale did ever chaunt

More welcome notes to weary bands

Of travellers in some shady haunt,

Among Arabian sands:

A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard

In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,

Breaking the silence of the seas

Among the farthest Hebrides.

Will no one tell me what she sings?—

Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow

For old, unhappy, far-off things,

And battles long ago:

Or is it some more humble lay,

Familiar matter of to-day?

Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,

That has been, and may be again?

Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang

As if her song could have no ending;

I saw her singing at her work,

And o'er the sickle bending;—

I listened, motionless and still;

And, as I mounted up the hill,

The music in my heart I bore,

Long after it was heard no more.

Lines Composed a Few Miles above Tintern Abbey, On Revisiting the Banks of the Wye during a Tour. July 13, 1798

Five years have past; five summers, with the length

Of five long winters! and again I hear

These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs

With a soft inland murmur.—Once again

Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs,

That on a wild secluded scene impress

Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect

The landscape with the quiet of the sky.

The day is come when I again repose

Here, under this dark sycamore, and view

These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts,

Which at this season, with their unripe fruits,

Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves

'Mid groves and copses. Once again I see

These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines

Of sportive wood run wild: these pastoral farms,

Green to the very door; and wreaths of smoke

Sent up, in silence, from among the trees!

With some uncertain notice, as might seem

Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods,

Or of some Hermit's cave, where by his fire

The Hermit sits alone.



These beauteous forms,

Through a long absence, have not been to me

As is a landscape to a blind man's eye:

But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din

Of towns and cities, I have owed to them,

In hours of weariness, sensations sweet,

Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart;

And passing even into my purer mind

With tranquil restoration:—feelings too

Of unremembered pleasure: such, perhaps,

As have no slight or trivial influence

On that best portion of a good man's life,

His little, nameless, unremembered, acts

Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust,

To them I may have owed another gift,

Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood,

In which the burthen of the mystery,

In which the heavy and the weary weight

Of all this unintelligible world,

Is lightened:—that serene and blessed mood,

In which the affections gently lead us on,—

Until, the breath of this corporeal frame

And even the motion of our human blood

Almost suspended, we are laid asleep

In body, and become a living soul:

While with an eye made quiet by the power

Of harmony, and the deep power of joy,

We see into the life of things.



If this

Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oft—

In darkness and amid the many shapes

Of joyless daylight; when the fretful stir

Unprofitable, and the fever of the world,

Have hung upon the beatings of my heart—

How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee,

O sylvan Wye! thou wanderer thro' the woods,

How often has my spirit turned to thee!



And now, with gleams of half-extinguished thought,

With many recognitions dim and faint,

And somewhat of a sad perplexity,

The picture of the mind revives again:

While here I stand, not only with the sense

Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts

That in this moment there is life and food

For future years. And so I dare to hope,

Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when first

I came among these hills; when like a roe

I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides

Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams,

Wherever nature led: more like a man

Flying from something that he dreads, than one

Who sought the thing he loved. For nature then

(The coarser pleasures of my boyish days

And their glad animal movements all gone by)

To me was all in all.—I cannot paint

What then I was. The sounding cataract

Haunted me like a passion: the tall rock,

The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,

Their colours and their forms, were then to me

An appetite; a feeling and a love,

That had no need of a remoter charm,

By thought supplied, not any interest

Unborrowed from the eye.—That time is past,

And all its aching joys are now no more,

And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this

Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur; other gifts

Have followed; for such loss, I would believe,

Abundant recompense. For I have learned

To look on nature, not as in the hour

Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes

The still sad music of humanity,

Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power

To chasten and subdue.—And I have felt

A presence that disturbs me with the joy

Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime

Of something far more deeply interfused,

Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,

And the round ocean and the living air,

And the blue sky, and in the mind of man:

A motion and a spirit, that impels

All thinking things, all objects of all thought,

And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still

A lover of the meadows and the woods

And mountains; and of all that we behold

From this green earth; of all the mighty world

Of eye, and ear,—both what they half create,

And what perceive; well pleased to recognise

In nature and the language of the sense

The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse,

The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul

Of all my moral being.



Nor perchance,

If I were not thus taught, should I the more

Suffer my genial spirits to decay:

For thou art with me here upon the banks

Of this fair river; thou my dearest Friend,

My dear, dear Friend; and in thy voice I catch

The language of my former heart, and read

My former pleasures in the shooting lights

Of thy wild eyes. Oh! yet a little while

May I behold in thee what I was once,

My dear, dear Sister! and this prayer I make,

Knowing that Nature never did betray

The heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege,

Through all the years of this our life, to lead

From joy to joy: for she can so inform

The mind that is within us, so impress

With quietness and beauty, and so feed

With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues,

Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men,

Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all

The dreary intercourse of daily life,

Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb

Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold

Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon

Shine on thee in thy solitary walk;

And let the misty mountain-winds be free

To blow against thee: and, in after years,

When these wild ecstasies shall be matured

Into a sober pleasure; when thy mind

Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms,

Thy memory be as a dwelling-place

For all sweet sounds and harmonies; oh! then,

If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief,

Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts

Of tender joy wilt thou remember me,

And these my exhortations! Nor, perchance—

If I should be where I no more can hear

Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams

Of past existence—wilt thou then forget

That on the banks of this delightful stream

We stood together; and that I, so long

A worshipper of Nature, hither came

Unwearied in that service: rather say

With warmer love—oh! with far deeper zeal

Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget,

That after many wanderings, many years

Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs,

And this green pastoral landscape, were to me

More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake!

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

Out-did 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.

There's More To Christmas

There's more to Christmas,
There's more, much more to Christmas,
Than candle-light and cheer;
It's the spirit of sweet friendship,
That brightens all the year,
It's thoughtfulness and kindness,
It's hope reborn again,
For peace, for understanding,
And for goodwill to men!

Christmas Acrostic

Carols and candles aglow in the night,
Hearth fires blazing all cozy and bright,
Red-leaved poinsettia ,white Christmas rose,
Ice skaters whirling on ice as it snows,
Sleigh bells and Santas,
Tinsel-trimmed tress,
Mistletoe magic and warm memories,
Angel all bringing glad tidings anew,
Seasons's best wishes specially for you!

The Carols

Christmas is finally here,
The sound of the carols fill the cold air,
Singing joyfully those Christmas songs
And the hearers can merrily sing along.

Every note, every line
Digs into my heart so divine,
Angelic voices resounding in the night,
Along with the guitar strummed in delight.

The carols shift from hymns to jives,
Sounding glorious as the melody thrives,
Filled with awe as I harden quietly,
The night is cold but peace overwhelms me.

The Christmas Story

Once upon a time,

A long,long time ago;

Begins the story of a baby,

That most of you should know.

His daddy's name was Joseph,

And Mary was His mom,

This baby was very special,

He was God's only son.

Some angels came from heaven,

And they began to sing,

To the shepherds in field below,

"Glad tidings do we bring!"

A bright star lit the heavens,

To light the magi's way,

To the baby in the manger,

Who was born on Christmas day.

And all who gathered round Him,

Rejoiced and praise His birth,

For the baby ,the king, named Jesus.

Is our Savior here on earth!

Christmas Colors

I see the city at its most dazzling,
When the lights are on that are eye popping,
Christmas colors come into view,
Like red green, yellow and blue.

Red means love shared with everyone,
Bitter discords are finally gone,
Painting the town red at its full swing,
What a wonderful joy this season brings.

Yellow works best when paired to other colors,
Yellow brings warmth in people's embraces,
Sparkling gold can be seen everywhere,
In tinsels,candles, and Christmas stars that glare.

Some feel blue when they miss someone,
Some dream for a white Christmas as stated in the song,
Green is the color of nature and fertility,
Embedded in the mistletoe's and Christmas trees.

Whatever meaning these colors may tell,
We still look back to the first noel,
It's the reason why we have this merry-making,
That night was the birth of our savoir king .

The Meaning Of Christmas...

Far away in Bethlehem, a baby boy was born,
Born with neither riches nor with fame,
Yet wise men came from all around to bring to Him to their gifts,
And peace was felt by all who heard His name.
       
       Angels watched Him as He slept,
       And gently rocked His bed,
       Their voices singing softly in His ear,
       His mother and His father both gave thanks to God above
       For the greatest gift for all,their son , so dear

They knew His life upon this earth
would not be filled with wealth,
They also knew He would encounter strife,
But most of all,they knew that He would be a loving Child,
And teach the love of God throughout His life.

      At the Christmas,as we celebrate this birth of Jesus Christ
      Lets keep in mind the truth of Christmas day,
      For its not the Christmas wrappings,nor the gifts that lie within
      But our gifts of love to others in every way..

Christmas is....

Christmas is not about gifts and toys,
        It's the time when people rejoice,
Christmas is not about food and drinks,
        It's not about this world as everybody thinks.

Christmas is about everlasting love,
        It's thanking the lord for what we have,
Christmas is about sharing and family,
        It's about Christ who love us fully

Jingle bells

Jingle bells,Jingle bells
Jingle all the way
Oh, what fun It is to ride
In a one-horse open sleigh

Dashing through the snow
In a one horse open sleigh
O'er the fields we go
Laughing all the way
Bells on bob tails ring
Making spirits bright
What fun it is to laugh and sing
A sleighing song tonight

Oh, jingle bells, jingle bells
Jingle all the way
Oh, what fun it is to ride
In a one horse open sleigh
Jingle bells, jingle bells
Jingle all the way
Oh, what fun it is to ride
In a one horse open sleigh

A day or two ago
I thought I'd take a ride
And soon Miss Fanny Bright
Was seated by my side
The horse was lean and lank
Misfortune seemed his lot
We got into a drifted bank
And then we got upsot

Oh, jingle bells, jingle bells
Jingle all the way
Oh, what fun it is to ride
In a one horse open sleigh
Jingle bells, jingle bells
Jingle all the way
Oh, what fun it is to ride
In a one horse open sleigh yeah

Jingle bells, jingle bells
Jingle all the way
Oh, what fun it is to ride
In a one horse open sleigh
Jingle bells, jingle bells
Jingle all the way
Oh, what fun it is to ride
In a one horse open sleigh

Christmas Bells

I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old, familiar carols play, 
And wild and sweet 
The words repeat 
Of peace on earth, good-will to men! 

And thought how, as the day had come, 
The belfries of all Christendom 
Had rolled along 
The unbroken song 
Of peace on earth, good-will to men! 

Till ringing, singing on its way, 
The world revolved from night to day, 
A voice, a chime, 
A chant sublime 
Of peace on earth, good-will to men! 

Then from each black, accursed mouth 
The cannon thundered in the South, 
And with the sound 
The carols drowned 
Of peace on earth, good-will to men! 

It was as if an earthquake rent 
The hearth-stones of a continent, 
And made forlorn 
The households born 
Of peace on earth, good-will to men! 

And in despair I bowed my head; 
"There is no peace on earth," I said; 
For hate is strong, 
And mocks the song 
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!" 

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep: 
"God is not dead, nor doth He sleep; 
The Wrong shall fail, 
The Right prevail, 
With peace on earth, good-will to men."