Poems

The sylvan slopes with corn-clad fieldsAre hung, as if with golden shields,Bright trophies of the sun!Like a fair sister of the sky,Unruffled doth the blue lake lie,The mountains looking on. And, sooth to say, yon vocal grove,Albeit uninspired by love,By love untaught to ring,May well afford to mortal earAn impulse more profoundly dearThan music of the Spring. For 'that' … [Read more...] about September 1819, By: William Wordsworth

My wife, we share the same shape,taste the smell of what is to come. Sometimes our feet collect shoelaces,other times sweat between toes. Why have you written the wheezingon the bottom of your knees? A tattoo comes unhinged ridingmy forearm to the neck of your back. Under our shade tree, spoiled fruit dropsand a stranger nearby marches off to … [Read more...] about A Definition Of Marriage, By: Michael H. Brownstein

We had a female Passenger who cameFrom Calais with us, spotless in array,A white-robed Negro, like a lady gay,Yet downcast as a woman fearing blame;Meek, destitute, as seemed, of hope or aimShe sate, from notice turning not away,But on all proffered intercourse did layA weight of languid speech, or to the sameNo sign of answer made by word or face:Yet still her eyes retained … [Read more...] about September 1, 1802, By: William Wordsworth

Scorn not the Sonnet; Critic, you have frowned,Mindless of its just honours; with this keyShakespeare unlocked his heart; the melodyOf this small lute gave ease to Petrarch's wound;A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound;With it Camöens soothed an exile's grief;The Sonnet glittered a gay myrtle leafAmid the cypress with which Dante crownedHis visionary brow: a glow-worm … [Read more...] about Scorn Not The Sonnet, By: William Wordsworth

My rose vines are trimmed back.Winter’s harsh climate dida number on them.The clipping continue along withover grown toenails lyingon the porch. … [Read more...] about Spring Clippings, By: Mary Bone