The Daffodils

The Daffodils by William Wordsworth (1770-1850)

I wander'd 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 stretch'd 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 show 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.

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Oh, the beauty of daffodils in Spring makes my heart soar! I plant them often in autumn, but alas, the resident squirrels in our garden love to eat the bulbs! And so, our annual crop will never allow me to see even a hundred at a glance!
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Emily Dickinson (2nd Poem)

Here's another poem by Emily Dickinson. It struck me as being quite optimistic and enjoyable. Remember how easy it is to enjoy more of the simple things in life that are all around us, if only we open our ears (as in this poem), or our eyes to enjoy the beauty of nature. If you'd like to read a little information about the poet, please look back at the blog: Emily Dickinson (1st Poem).
(Poem from The Collected Poems of Emily Dickinson published by Barnes & Nobel, 1993.

Heart not so heavy as mine,
Wending late home,
As it passed my window
Whistled itself a tune, -

A careless snatch, a ballad,
A ditty of the street;
Yet to my irritated ear
An anodyne so sweet,

It was as if a bobolink,
Sauntering this way,
Carolled and mused and carolled,
Then bubbled slow away.

It was as if a chirping brook
Upon a toilsome way
Set bleeding feet to minuets
Without the knowing why.

To-morrow, night will come again,
Weary, perhaps, and sore.
Ah, bugle, by my window,
I pray you stroll once more!

John Boyle O'Reilly (Poem)

A White Rose by John Boyle O'Reilly, an Irish poet who lived from 1844 to 1890. I found this poem in a terrific collection of poetry entitled Irish Love Poems which was edited by A. Norman Jeffares. It was first printed in 1997 by The O'Brien Press, Dublin. Remember to read it out loud.

A White Rose

The red rose whispers of passion,
And the white rose breathes of love;
O, the red rose is a falcon,
And the white rose is a dove.

But I send you a cream-white rosebud
With a flush on its petal tips;
For the love that is purest and sweetest
Has a kiss of desire on the lips.

William Butler Yeats (3rd Poem)

This is one of my favorites. You must read it aloud!

He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven (written between 1899-1904)

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

William Butler Yeats (2nd Poem)

The Song of Wandering Aengus
(written between 1899-1904)

I went out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.

When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire aflame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And some one called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.

Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.

Emily Dickinson (1st Poem)

Emily Dickinson was born in Amherst, Massachusetts, in 1830 and died in 1886.
She was a recluse for most of her life and wrote almost two thousand poems. Only seven were published during her lifetime, all anonymously. When four poems were rejected by The Atlantic Monthly, she never again attempted to publish her work. Apparently her sister discovered them after Emily's death and arranged to have them published. I found this biographical information in my edition of The Collected Poems of Emily Dickinson, published by Barnes & Nobel Books in 1993. It had been initially published in 1924 as The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson.

Here is a poem I read for the first time tonight.

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

Robert Frost (Poem)

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
by Robert Frost (written between 1923-1928)

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

A sonnet for St. Valentine's Day

This untitled sonnet was written by Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806-1861)

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being an ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints, - I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! - and, if God Choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.

William Butler Yeats (1st Poem)

The Irish poet, William Butler Yeats is my favorite poet. I have stood in his home, and looked out on the surrounding fields. I could easily imagine how the serenity of the countryside and the peace of his house would lend themselves to the writing of good poetry.

When I was in primary school in Ireland, we learned this poem 'off-by-heart'. It has remained very close to my heart!

I believe that Yeats wrote this poem when he was living in London and it was published around 1890 or so. He missed the beauty of Ireland and longed to return there. For those of you who yearn to escape from city life and live a quieter one in the countryside, please contemplate this poem. It is even more beautiful if you read it aloud.

The Lake Isle of Innisfree

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honeybee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet's wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart's core.