The Poem Reader

I wandered lonely as a cloudThat 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 shineAnd twinkle on the milky way,They stretched in never-ending lineAlong the margin of a bay:Ten thousand saw I at a glance,Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but theyOut-did the sparkling waves in glee:A poet could not but be gay,In such a jocund company:I gazed—and gazed—but little thoughtWhat wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lieIn vacant or in pensive mood,They flash upon that inward eyeWhich is the bliss of solitude;And then my heart with pleasure fills,And dances with the daffodils.

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

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The rustling of leaves under the feet in woods and under      hedges;The crumpling of cat-ice and snow down wood-rides,      narrow lanes and every street causeway;Rustling through a wood or rather rushing, while the wind      halloos in the oak-toop like thunder;The rustle of birds' wings startled from their nests or flying      unseen into the bushes;The whizzing of larger birds overhead in a wood, such as      crows, puddocks, buzzards;The trample of robins and woodlarks on the brown leaves.      and the patter of squirrels on the green moss;The fall of an acorn on the ground, the pattering of nuts on        the hazel branches as they fall from ripeness;The flirt of the groundlark's wing from the stubbles –       how sweet such pictures on dewy mornings, when thedew flashes from its brown feathers.

That time of year thou mayst in me beholdWhen yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hangUpon those boughs which shake against the cold,Bare ruin’d choirs where late the sweet birds sang.In me thou seest the twilight of such dayAs after sunset fadeth in the west,Which by and by black night doth take away,Death’s second self, that seals up all in rest.In me thou seest the glowing of such fireThat on the ashes of his youth doth lie,As the death-bed whereon it must expire,Consum’d by that which it was nourished by.   This thou perceiv’st which makes thy love more strong,   To love that well which thou must leave ere long.

Fall, leaves, fall; die, flowers, away;Lengthen night and shorten day;Every leaf speaks bliss to meFluttering from the autumn tree.I shall smile when wreaths of snowBlossom where the rose should grow;I shall sing when night’s decayUshers in a drearier day.

Some say the world will end in fire,Some say in ice.From what I’ve tasted of desireI hold with those who favor fire.But if it had to perish twice,I think I know enough of hateTo say that for destruction iceIs also greatAnd would suffice.

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When I was a kid I loved to dig holesThere's a part of me that must have been mole.Holes got bigger and deeper as I aged.My utensils went from spoon to spade.A small depression is the start of a hole,you dig on down with no particular goal.Come back tomorrow and dig some more,dig and dig till you can't dig no more.Sometimes a neighbor kid would join in the fun.The dirt would fly and imaginations would run.At the end of the day and all had gone home, it was still my holeI was all alone.I would cover it with wood, concealit with dirt.My secret sanctum, a womb in the earth.A candle in a notch gave me illumination.A garden path towards ruination.Transformation from boy to man.Nebulous holes he can't understand.Enigma and stigma pour out from the void.Memories of holes, the ones I've enjoyed.How one survives with so many holes,but I guess it's no different than freckles or moles.All the methods I've tried, to fill them all in. Which one do I pick and where to beginYou know all of these holes don't need filling in! Life's shot through with em. They don't grow over nor do they heal. They just are. So deal.

Between my finger and my thumb   The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.

Under my window, a clean rasping sound   When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:   My father, digging. I look down

Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds   Bends low, comes up twenty years away   Stooping in rhythm through potato drills   Where he was digging.

The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft   Against the inside knee was levered firmly.He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deepTo scatter new potatoes that we picked,Loving their cool hardness in our hands.

By God, the old man could handle a spade.   Just like his old man.

My grandfather cut more turf in a dayThan any other man on Toner’s bog.Once I carried him milk in a bottleCorked sloppily with paper. He straightened upTo drink it, then fell to right awayNicking and slicing neatly, heaving sodsOver his shoulder, going down and downFor the good turf. Digging.

The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slapOf soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edgeThrough living roots awaken in my head.But I’ve no spade to follow men like them.

Between my finger and my thumbThe squat pen rests.I’ll dig with it.

A wood near Athens. A Fairy speaks.

When I was fair and young, then favor graced me.Of many was I sought their mistress for to be.But I did scorn them all and answered them therefore:Go, go, go, seek some other where; importune me no more.

How many weeping eyes I made to pine in woe,How many sighing hearts I have not skill to show,But I the prouder grew and still this spake therefore:Go, go, go, seek some other where, importune me no more.

Then spake fair Venus’ son, that proud victorious boy,Saying: You dainty dame, for that you be so coy,I will so pluck your plumes as you shall say no more:Go, go, go, seek some other where, importune me no more.

As soon as he had said, such change grew in my breastThat neither night nor day I could take any rest.Wherefore I did repent that I had said before:Go, go, go, seek some other where, importune me no more.