Loneliness,grave aloneness when no one is listening.Searching love,when leaves betray their fruit before they are ripen.Listen,my words have been falling on deaf ears that remember nothing.Expression,My feelings feel like rambling collections of a crier that needs to be pacified.Love me,Parts of my heart are empty, bleeding, lend me some of your blood to afresh it.Look into my … [Read more...] about A Sing A Dirge, By: Peter Okonkwo
To Sir George Howland Beaumont, Bart From The South-West Coast Or Cumberland 1811, By: William Wordsworth
Far from our home by Grasmere's quiet Lake,From the Vale's peace which all her fields partake,Here on the bleakest point of Cumbria's shoreWe sojourn stunned by Ocean's ceaseless roar;While, day by day, grim neighbour! huge Black CombFrowns deepening visibly his native gloom,Unless, perchance rejecting in despiteWhat on the Plain we have of warmth and light,In his own storms he … [Read more...] about To Sir George Howland Beaumont, Bart From The South-West Coast Or Cumberland 1811, By: William Wordsworth
To S.H., By: William Wordsworth
Excuse is needless when with love sincereOf occupation, not by fashion led,Thou turn'st the Wheel that slept with dust o'erspread;My nerves from no such murmur shrink,--tho' near,Soft as the Dorhawk's to a distant ear,When twilight shades darken the mountain's head.Even She who toils to spin our vital threadMight smile on work, O Lady, once so dearTo household virtues. … [Read more...] about To S.H., By: William Wordsworth
To Rotha Q……, By: William Wordsworth
Rotha, my Spiritual Child! this head was greyWhen at the sacred font for thee I stood;Pledged till thou reach the verge of womanhood,And shalt become thy own sufficient stay:Too late, I feel, sweet Orphan, was the dayFor stedfast hope the contract to fulfil;Yet shall my blessing hover o'er thee still,Embodied in the music of this Lay,Breathed forth beside the peaceful mountain … [Read more...] about To Rotha Q……, By: William Wordsworth
To My Sister, By: William Wordsworth
It is the first mild day of March:Each minute sweeter than beforeThe redbreast sings from the tall larchThat stands beside our door. There is a blessing in the air,Which seems a sense of joy to yieldTo the bare trees, and mountains bare,And grass in the green field. My sister! ('tis a wish of mine)Now that our morning meal is done,Make haste, your morning task resign;Come … [Read more...] about To My Sister, By: William Wordsworth