Poetry

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 shew 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. 

Listen, my children, and you shall hear Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-Five: Hardly a man is now alive Who remembers that famous day and year. He said to his friend, “If the British march By land or sea from the town to-night, Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry-arch Of the North-Church-tower, as a signal-light,— One if by land, and two if by sea; And I on the opposite shore will be, Ready to ride and spread the alarm Through every Middlesex village and farm, For the country-folk to be up and to arm.” Then he said “Good night!” and with muffled oar Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore, Just as the moon rose over the bay, Where swinging wide at her moorings lay The Somerset, British man-of-war: A phantom ship, with each mast and spar Across the moon, like a prison-bar, And a huge black hulk, that was magnified By its own reflection in the tide. Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street Wanders and watches with eager ears, Till in the

After the winter rain,     Sing, robin! Sing, swallow! Grasses are in the lane,     Buds and flowers will follow. Woods shall ring, blithe and gay,    With bird-trill and twitter, Though the skies weep to-day,     And the winds are bitter.  Though deep call unto deep    As calls the thunder,  And white the billows leap    The tempest under; Softly the waves shall come    Up the long, bright beaches,  With dainty, flowers of foam    And tenderest speeches… After the wintry pain,     And the long, long sorrow,  Sing, heart!—for thee again    Joy comes with the morrow.

The wind was a care-free soul      That broke the chains of earth,  And strode for a moment across the land     With the wild halloo of his mirth. He little cared that he ripped up trees,      That houses fell at his hand,  That his step broke calm on the breast of seas,      That his feet stirred clouds of sand.  But when he had had his little joke,      Had shouted and laughed and sung,  When the trees were scarred, their branches broke,      And their foliage aching hung,  He crept to his cave with a stealthy tread,      With rain-filled eyes and low-bowed head.