Poems

Sylph was it? or a Bird more brightThan those of fabulous stock?A second darted by; and lo!Another of the flock,Through sunshine flitting from the boughTo nestle in the rock.Transient deception! a gay freakOf April's mimicries!Those brilliant strangers, hailed with joyAmong the budding trees,Proved last year's leaves, pushed from the sprayTo frolic on the breeze. Maternal … [Read more...] about Rural Illusions, By: William Wordsworth

When my eyes are closed on a warm sunny day, and I begin to drift, sometimes I hear my father’s voice. Not words per se, or any particular sentence, just the sound of him. And it is him. For a split second that recognition that it is his voice. Unmistakable. Clear. Almost jolts me awake to look around for him. And yet it is reassuring to hear him in my head. It is … [Read more...] about Sometimes, I Hear My Father’s Voice, By: John Hanniffy

There's George Fisher, Charles Fleming, and Reginald Shore,Three rosy-cheeked school-boys, the highest not moreThan the height of a counsellor's bag;To the top of    Great How did it please them to climb:And there they built up, without mortar or lime,A Man on the peak of the crag. They built him of stones gathered up as they lay:They built him and … [Read more...] about Rural Architecture, By: William Wordsworth

How profitless the relics that we cull,Troubling the last holds of ambitious Rome,Unless they chasten fancies that presumeToo high, or idle agitations lull!Of the world's flatteries if the brain be full,To have no seat for thought were better doom,Like this old helmet, or the eyeless skullOf him who gloried in its nodding plume.Heaven out of view, our wishes what are they?Our … [Read more...] about Roman Antiquities – From The Roman Station At Old Penrith, By: William Wordsworth

Each day passes,like the day before,today becomes tomorrow becomes yesterday,and the dreams of youth, like seeds cast upon a barren field,with age,become dust. Each day passes,like a blown autumn leaf before the winters breath,held carelessly,then gone.The nights are fraught with infinite promise,yet are unrevealing of intent,like a closed book to a blind man,time moves,each … [Read more...] about Within The Spaces, By: Reid Moule