William
Blake—Selected Poems
From Poetical Sketches by William Blake, 1783
TO SPRING
O thou, with dewy locks, who lookest
down
Thro' the clear windows of the morning; turn
Thine angel eyes upon our western
isle,
Which in full choir hails thy approach, O Spring!
The hills tell each other, and the list'ning
Vallies hear; all our longing eyes
are turned
Up to thy bright pavillions: issue
forth,
And let thy holy feet visit our clime.
Come o'er the eastern hills, and let our winds
Kiss thy perfumed garments; let us taste
Thy morn and evening breath;
scatter thy pearls
Upon our love-sick land that mourns for thee.
O deck her forth with thy fair
fingers; pour
Thy soft kisses on her bosom; and put
Thy golden crown upon her languish'd
head,
Whose modest tresses were bound up for thee!
TO SUMMER
O thou, who passest thro' our vallies in
Thy strength, curb thy fierce steeds, allay the heat
That flames from their large nostrils! thou,
O Summer,
Oft pitched'st here thy golden
tent, and oft
Beneath our oaks hast slept, while we beheld
With joy, thy ruddy limbs and flourishing hair.
Beneath our thickest shades we oft have heard
Thy voice, when noon upon his fervid car
Rode o'er the deep of heaven; beside our springs
Sit down, and in our mossy vallies,
on
Some bank beside a river clear, throw thy
Silk draperies off, and rush into the stream:
Our vallies love the Summer in his pride.
Our bards are fam'd
who strike the silver wire:
Our youth are bolder than the southern swains:
Our maidens fairer in the sprightly dance:
We lack not songs, nor instruments of joy,
Nor echoes sweet, nor waters clear as heaven,
Nor laurel wreaths against the sultry heat.
TO AUTUMN
O Autumn, laden with fruit, and stained
With the blood of the grape, pass not, but sit
Beneath my shady roof, there thou may'st
rest,
And tune thy jolly voice to my fresh pipe;
And all the daughters of the year shall dance!
Sing now the lusty song of fruits and flowers.
“The narrow bud opens her beauties to
“The sun, and love runs in her
thrilling veins;
“Blossoms hang round the brows of morning, and
“Flourish down the bright cheek of modest eve,
“Till clust'ring Summer breaks forth into singing,
“And feather'd clouds strew flowers round her head.
“The spirits of the air live on the smells
“Of fruit; and joy, with pinions light, roves round
“The gardens, or sits singing in
the trees.”
Thus sang the jolly Autumn as he
sat,
Then rose, girded himself, and o'er the bleak
Hills fled from our sight; but left his golden load.
TO WINTER
O Winter! bar
thine adamantine doors:
The north is thine; there hast
thou built thy dark
Deep-founded habitation. Shake not
thy roofs,
Nor bend thy pillars with thine iron car.
He hears me not, but o'er the yawning deep
Rides heavy; his storms are unchain'd;
sheathed
In ribbed steel, I dare not lift mine eyes;
For he hath rear'd his sceptre o'er the world.
Lo! now the direful monster, whose
skin clings
To his strong bones, strides o'er the groaning rocks:
He withers all in silence, and his handt
Unclothes the earth, and freezes up frail life.
He
takes his seat upon the cliffs, the mariner
Cries in vain. Poor little wretch! that
deal'st
With
storms; till heaven smiles, and the monster
Is driv'n yelling to his caves beneath mount Hecla.
Thou
fair-hair'd angel of the evening,
Now,
while the sun rests on the mountains, lightt
Thy
bright torch of love; thy radiant crown
Put
on, and smile upon our evening bed!
Smile
on our loves; and, while thou drawest the
Blue
curtains of the sky, scatter thy silver dew
On
every flower that shuts its sweet eyes
In timely sleep. Let thy west wind sleep on
The
lake; speak si[l]ence with
thy glimmering eyes,
And
wash the dusk with silver. Soon, full soon,
Dost
thou withdraw; then the wolf rages wide,
And
the lion glares thro' the dun forest:
The
fleeces of our flocks are cover'd with
Thy sacred dew: protect them with thine influence.
O
holy virgin! clad in purest white,
Unlock
heav'n's golden gates, and issue forth;
Awake
the dawn that sleeps in heaven; let light
Rise
from the chambers of the east, and bring
The honied dew that cometh on waking day.
O
radiant morning, salute the sun,
Rouz'd like a huntsman to the chace;
and, with
Thy buskin'd feet, appear upon our hills.
William Wordsworth—Selected Poems
Lines Written in Early Spring I heard a thousand blended notes, While in a grove I sate reclined, In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts Bring sad thoughts to the mind. To her fair works did Nature link The human soul that through me ran; And much it grieved my heart to think What man has made of man. Through primrose tufts, in that green bower, The periwinkle trailed its wreaths; 10 And 'tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes. The birds around me hopped and played, Their thoughts I cannot measure:-- But the least motion which they made It seemed a thrill of pleasure. The budding twigs spread out their fan, To catch the breezy air; And I must think, do all I can, That there was pleasure there. 20 If this belief from heaven be sent, If such be Nature's holy plan, Have I not reason to lament What man has made of man? 1798 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; 10 But she is in her grave, and, oh, The difference to me!
THREE
years she grew in sun and shower;
Then
Nature said, 'A lovelier flower
This
child I to myself will take;
She
shall be mine, and I will make
Both
law and impulse: and with me
In
earth and heaven, in glade and bower,
Shall
feel an overseeing power
'She
shall be sportive as the fawn
That
wild with glee across the lawn
And
hers shall be the breathing balm,
And
hers the silence and the calm
'The
floating clouds their state shall lend
To
her; for her the willow bend;
Even
in the motions of the storm
Grace
that shall mould the maiden's form
'The
stars of midnight shall be dear
To
her; and she shall lean her ear
Where
rivulets dance their wayward round,
And
beauty born of murmuring sound
She
seem'd a thing that could not feel
No
motion has she now, no force;
Roll'd round in earth's diurnal course,
With rocks, and stones, and trees.
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: 10 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, 20 They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils. 1804.
A FLOCK of sheep that leisurely pass by, One after one; the sound of rain, and bees Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas, Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky; I have thought of all by turns, and yet do lie Sleepless! and soon the small birds' melodies Must hear, first uttered from my orchard trees; And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry. Even thus last night, and two nights more, I lay, And could not win thee, Sleep! by any stealth: 10 So do not let me wear to-night away: Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth? Come, blessed barrier between day and day, Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!