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THE world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:
Little we see in Nature that is ours;

We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This sea that bares her bosom to the moon,
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not.-Great God! I'd rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,

Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;

Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.

William Wordsworth [1770-1850]



Of this fair volume which we World do name,
If we the sheets and leaves could turn with care,
Of him who it corrects, and did it frame,

We clear might read the art and wisdom rare;
Find out his power which wildest powers doth tame,
His providence extending everywhere,

His justice which proud rebels doth not spare,
In every page, no, period of the same.

But silly we, like foolish children, rest

Well pleased with colored vellum, leaves of gold,
Fair dangling ribbons, leaving what is best,
On the great Writer's sense ne'er taking hold;
Or, if by chance we stay our minds on aught,
It is some picture on the margin wrought.

William Drummond [1585-1649]


THE bubbling brook doth leap when I come by,
Because my feet find measure with its call;
The birds know when the friend they love is nigh,
For I am known to them, both great and small.
The flower that on the lonely hillside grows
Expects me there when spring its bloom has given;
And many a tree and bush my wanderings knows,
And e'en the clouds and silent stars of heaven;
For he who with his Maker walks aright,
Shall be their lord as Adam was before;

His ear shall catch each sound with new delight,
Each object wear the dress that then it wore;

And he, as when erect in soul he stood,
Hear from his Father's lips that all is good.
Jones Very [1813-1880j


IN that new world toward which our feet are set,
Shall we find aught to make our hearts forget
Earth's homely joys and her bright hours of bliss?
Has heaven a spell divine enough for this?
For who the pleasure of the spring shall tell
When on the leafless stalk the brown buds swell,
When the grass brightens and the days grow long,
And little birds break out in rippling song?

O sweet the dropping eve, the blush of morn,
The starlit sky, the rustling fields of corn,
The soft airs blowing from the freshening seas,
The sunflecked shadow of the stately trees,
The mellow thunder and the lulling rain,
The warm, delicious, happy summer rain,
When the grass brightens and the days grow long,
And little birds break out in rippling song!

O beauty manifold, from morn till night,
Dawn's flush, noon's blaze and sunset's tender light!
O fair, familiar features, changes sweet

Of her revolving seasons, storm and sleet

And golden calm, as slow she wheels through space,
From snow to roses, and how dear her face,
When the grass brightens, when the days grow long,
And little birds break out in rippling song!

O happy earth! O home so well beloved!
What recompense have we, from thee removed?
One hope we have that overtops the whole,—
The hope of finding every vanished soul,
We love and long for daily, and for this
Gladly we turn from thee, and all thy bliss,
Even at thy loveliest, when the days are long,
And little birds break out in rippling song.

Celia Thaxter [1835-1894]

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O JOYS of love and joys of fame,
It is not you I shall regret;
I sadden lest I should forget
The beauty woven in earth's name:

The shout and battle of the gale,
The stillness of the sun-rising,

The sound of some deep hidden spring,

The glad sob of the filling sail,

The first green ripple of the wheat,

The rain-song of the lifted leaves,

The waking birds beneath the eaves, The voices of the summer heat.

Ethel Clifford [18


O NATURE! I do not aspire

To be the highest in thy choir,—
To be a meteor in thy sky,

Or comet that may range on high;
Only a zephyr that may blow
Among the reeds by the river low;
Give me thy most privy place
Where to run my airy race.

In some withdrawn, unpublic mead
Let me sigh upon a reed,

Or in the woods, with leafy din,
Whisper the still evening in:
Some still work give me to do,—
Only-be it near to you!

For I'd rather be thy child

And pupil, in the forest wild,
Than be the king of men elsewhere,

And most sovereign slave of care;


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