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!

Shall I compare thee to a summers day?

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st;
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

Changing Weather

Do you barely see,
the sun in the sky,
when you know it's very high.

You stand in the sunshine,
and you wonder why,
on a day like today,
you go inside and stay.

When the snow flakes,
come your way
you wished you could
go outside today.

You wait for warm days,
cold is all you get,
making you have a fit.

Finally spring is here,
flowers are blooming,
love this weather, oh so dear.

At the Pond

As I looked around the pond
I see people playing in the snow
Laughing and throwing snowballs at each other
Making snow angles with great pride
Children sledding down the hill as if flying

As I look on the pond
I see people skating
Skating like soaring eagles
Twirling like tornadoes
But graceful as a ballerina dance

As I look around the pond
I see a people having fun
Enjoying themselves
Helping each other as if they were their little sister
I see a peaceful and fun world

But I
I am having no fun
No fun at all
For I am sitting on the bench
Sitting on the bench like a lost dog
For I am cripple

Take Me Away

For once I don't want a steaming cup of coffee
and hear the clomp clomp of my boss' high heels
for once in my life I want to be taken away
to the rivers and mountains on my four wheels
where the birds chirp all day long
and the whole place is carpeted with green
where fresh milk and curd comes from the cows
and no technology can be heard or seen
just the clouds, the river, the mountains and the sun
and at night beneath the countless stars I shall sleep
in the morning the sun will kiss my face
I will belong to a place where no one but silence speaks
so take me away to the mountains today
for inside these four walls I can no longer stay

Nature's Way

Upon a nice mid-spring day,
Let's take a look at Nature's way,
Breathe the scent of nice fresh air,
Feel the breeze within your hair.
The grass will poke between your toes,
Smell the flowers with your nose,
Clouds form shapes within the skies,
And light will glisten from your eyes.
Hear the buzzing of the bees,
Climb the tallest willow trees,
Look across the meadow way,
And you shall see a young deer play.
Pick the daisies as they grow,
Watch a gentle cold stream flow,
Know the sounds of water splash,
Catch its glimmer in a flash.
When altogether all seems sound,
Lay yourself upon the ground,
Take a moment to inhale,
And listen to Nature tell her tale...

Fog

I'm walking blindly through this fog.
This path, it's mesmerizing.
I walk with no guidance.
This fog holds no knowledge.
Of the past, present or future.
As I stumble along on this unknown road.
I feel a presence say soft words into my shoulder.

It greets me with warm arms and sweet nothings.
Not guidance but reassurance.
This is no mistake.
A pleasant surprise for my journey.
Worth more than a thoroughly planned route. - See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11583593-Fog.-by-Hayzlenut#sthash.HVmLz2JV.dpuf

I'm walking blindly through this fog.
This path, it's mesmerizing.
I walk with no guidance.
This fog holds no knowledge.
Of the past, present or future.
As I stumble along on this unknown road.
I feel a presence say soft words into my shoulder.

It greets me with warm arms and sweet nothings.
Not guidance but reassurance.
This is no mistake.
A pleasant surprise for my journey.
Worth more than a thoroughly planned route. - See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11583593-Fog.-by-Hayzlenut#sthash.HVmLz2JV.dpuf

I'm walking blindly through this fog.
This path, it's mesmerizing.
I walk with no guidance.
This fog holds no knowledge.
Of the past, present or future.
As I stumble along on this unknown road.
I feel a presence say soft words into my shoulder.


It greets me with warm arms and sweet nothings.
Not guidance but reassurance.
This is no mistake.
A pleasant surprise for my journey.
Worth more than a thoroughly planned route.

I'm walking blindly through this fog.
This path, it's mesmerizing.
I walk with no guidance.
This fog holds no knowledge.
Of the past, present or future.
As I stumble along on this unknown road.
I feel a presence say soft words into my shoulder.

It greets me with warm arms and sweet nothings.
Not guidance but reassurance.
This is no mistake.
A pleasant surprise for my journey.
Worth more than a thoroughly planned route. - See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11583593-Fog.-by-Hayzlenut#sthash.HVmLz2JV.dpuf

I'm walking blindly through this fog.
This path, it's mesmerizing.
I walk with no guidance.
This fog holds no knowledge.
Of the past, present or future.
As I stumble along on this unknown road.
I feel a presence say soft words into my shoulder.

It greets me with warm arms and sweet nothings.
Not guidance but reassurance.
This is no mistake.
A pleasant surprise for my journey.
Worth more than a thoroughly planned route. - See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11583593-Fog.-by-Hayzlenut#sthash.HVmLz2JV.dpuf

How Beautiful is the Rain!

How beautiful is the rain!

After the dust and heat,

In the broad and fiery street,

In the narrow lane,

How beautiful is the rain!



How it clatters along the roofs,

Like the tramp of hoofs!

How it gushes and struggles out

From the throat of the overflowing spout



Across the window-pane

It pours and pours;

And swift and wide,

Like a river down the gutter roars

The rain, the welcome rain!



The sick man from his chamber

Looks at the twisted brooks;

He can feel the cool

Breath of each little pool;

His fevered brain

Grows calm again,

And he breathes a blessing on the rain.



From the neighboring school

Come the boys,

With more than their wonted noise

And commotion;

And down the wet streets

Sail their mimic fleets,

Till the treacherous pool

Engulfs them in its whirling

And turbulent ocean.



In the country, on every side,

Where far and wide,

Like a leopard's tawny and spotted hide

Stretches the plain,

To the dry grass and the drier grain

How welcome is the rain!



In the furrowed land

The toilsome and patient oxen stand:

Lifting the yoke-encumbered head,

With their dilated nostrils spread,

They silently inhale

The clover-scented gale,

And the vapours that arise

From the well-watered and smoking soil.

For this rest in the furrow after toil

Their large and lustrous eyes

Seem to thank the Lord,

More than man's spoken word.



N ear at hand,

From under the sheltering trees,

The farmer sees

His pastures, and his fields of grain,

As they bend their tops

To the numberless beating drops

Of the incessant rain.

He counts it as no sin

That he sees therein

Only his own thrift and gain.

Winter

I will gaze at the stars,
And maybe even Mars,
They are all so bright,
On a wonderful clear winter night,
Feeling the breeze,
Watching the trees,
They're swaying with grace,
In this peaceful little place,
Time moves on, more and more,
It's getting colder than it was before,
People are sick and sneezing,
Because this weather is so freezing,
One of the prettiest times of year,
Winter season is finally here,
32 is the magic number,
For a white blanket as you slumber,
Yummy things like hot chocolate and s'mores,
Cookies, treats, and sweets galore,
A fascinating season Winter is,
With it's beauty, peace, and bliss,
Christmas is almost here,
A holiday filled with such cheer,
Giving and getting so many things,
Being with family, enjoying everything it brings,
You had already made your list,
You wake up and hope to find your wish,
Unwrap the box and look inside,
You saw your wish and nearly cried,
Oh man, how wonderful Winter can be,
From the holidays to the scenery,
My favorite thing, however, I'm having trouble deciding,
Everything is great, and it's only just arriving.

Where Peaceful Waters Flow

The clouds break forth the streams of light
To dance upon the earth,
And cradled in the sands of time,
Comes a newborn babies'' birth.
A gentle breeze blows through the night,
It whispers through the grass,
And ripples on the water form
As rain glistens on the glass.

And you listen to the sound,
The Lords' presence all around.
He summons us to go
Where peaceful waters flow.

A rainbow arcs across the sky,
A promise is displayed.
The graceful flight of a butterfly,
It takes my breath away.
The autumn leaves in their splendor
Fall gracefully to the earth,
And stars proclaim their song at night,
What is their beauty worth?

And you listen to the sound,
The Lords' presence all around.
He summons us to go
Where peaceful waters flow.

I Love A Lonely Winding Road

I love a lonely winding road
That takes me where I cannot see
Until each softly rounded hill
Reveals its landscaped mystery.
Where nature's stage creates the plot,
What ever the scene may be.

I love the crocus call in spring,
The first to wake from winter's sleep.
Translucent bits of ivory joy,
So patient under snow banks deep,
'Til they can lift each star like face
And proudly nature's rhythm keep.

I love the fiery autumn hues,
Too harsh to bear in gentle spring
But welcomed by the strident wind
That makes the mighty pine tree sing,
Freeing the crimson leaves that dance
Like bright birds, high on wing.

I love the wonders of this world,
The secrets nature guards so well
From those who have no time to spend,
Who will not lift the ocean's shell
And listen to the murmured tale
That each one has to tell.

To Autumn

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

Where are the songs of spring? Ay, Where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

 

Magical Sunset

As the day ends to rest
The sunset does its best
Setting on fire the lively waves
Colouring orange the nature he saves
its pure ancient glorious perfection.

The great ocean will receive
The burning sun who's going to leave.
Slowly comes the night
Devouring that magic light:
we are still suspended in a great delight.

A Day At Sea

As the ocean waves at me,
And the sand greets the sea,
The fish swim free,
And shells wash up by me.

The sand squishes suddenly,
Between my shoeless toes.
Then the tide flows over them,
And back down it goes.

The salt is on my tongue,
The sea's song is sung,
The sun is going down,
And so my day at sea is done.

Look Outside

Look Outside, see the trees
Watch the flowers in the breeze
Things won't be like this in a year or two
If polluting is all we do
Seize the night
Seize the day
Things won't always be this way
Thousands of people are dying
In the night you hear children crying
Let's stop the war
Our people are sore
The world can't help itself
Who cares about your wealth
Help me to help you
Show the world what you can do.

The Whispering Winds

Like the wind whispering through the trees
Your spirit lifts me
Teaching me valuable lessons.
I wait patiently to grow in the light of your eyes
Seeking approval, knowing
There's comfort in your silent embrace,
And I listen carefully to what it offers.
I feel the joy in your laughter and trusting eyes
And learn to give of myself, for no judgment is passed.
When sadness fills my heart with disappointment
And I need protection from the storm,
It is only then I realize the depth of friendship
Sewn together with unbreakable thread.
I understand that the fabric only gets better with age,
That it should be handled with care
And sometimes it has to rain.
I have discovered my own beauty
By lessons learned while discovering yours.
Like a beautiful sky after the storm
Your courage to break free of the clouds
Still amazes me.
I close my eyes to feel the warmth of the sun
Such a precious gift you've given
Appreciating the gentleness and I sigh with thankfulness
Recognizing my fortune.
A sisterly bond that knows only
Love that is unconditional.
Nurturing with grace and acceptance
How lucky
To share a piece of my life with a soul that so perfectly fits mine.
A puzzle with missing pieces
Now complete
How sad for those who are still searching.
My blessings are abundant
And I thank God for the whispering winds,
For they remind me everyday
To celebrate the gift of our friendship and to hold it close,
To never let it go.

The Sun Rising

Busy old fool, unruly sun,

               Why dost thou thus,

Through windows, and through curtains call on us?

Must to thy motions lovers' seasons run?

               Saucy pedantic wretch, go chide

               Late school boys and sour prentices,

         Go tell court huntsmen that the king will ride,

         Call country ants to harvest offices,

Love, all alike, no season knows nor clime,

Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.

               Thy beams, so reverend and strong

               Why shouldst thou think?

I could eclipse and cloud them with a wink,

But that I would not lose her sight so long;

               If her eyes have not blinded thine,

               Look, and tomorrow late, tell me,

         Whether both th' Indias of spice and mine

         Be where thou leftst them, or lie here with me.

Ask for those kings whom thou saw'st yesterday,

And thou shalt hear, All here in one bed lay.

               She's all states, and all princes, I,

               Nothing else is.

Princes do but play us; compared to this,

All honor's mimic, all wealth alchemy.

               Thou, sun, art half as happy as we,

               In that the world's contracted thus.

         Thine age asks ease, and since thy duties be

         To warm the world, that's done in warming us.

Shine here to us, and thou art everywhere;

This bed thy center is, these walls, thy sphere.