Poems

In this still place, remote from men,Sleeps Ossian, in the NARROW GLEN;In this still place, where murmurs onBut one meek streamlet, only one:He sang of battles, and the breathOf stormy war, and violent death;And should, methinks, when all was past,Have rightfully been laid at lastWhere rocks were rudely heaped, and rentAs by a spirit turbulent;Where sights were rough, and … [Read more...] about Memorials Of A Tour Of Scotland, 1803 VI. Glen-Almain, Or, The Narrow Glen. By: William Wordsworth

There's a giant bubble of ironyIn this room about nowIt contains more imperfect ironyThan this room will allowIt floats like a wanderer o'er our headsA bit like Wordsworth's cloudOur cumulo-nimble-cloud-bubbleIs due to speak aloudYes, it'll definitely happen soonIts growth exponentialWhen the irony finally rains downConceptual torrentialThe thoughts currently queuedWill soon … [Read more...] about Where’s The Nearest Exit?, By: Nathan Mallon

Now we are tired of boisterous joy,Have romped enough, my little Boy!Jane hangs her head upon my breast,And you shall bring your stool and rest;This corner is your own. There! take your seat, and let me seeThat you can listen quietly:And, as I promised, I will tellThat strange adventure which befellA poor blind Highland Boy. A 'Highland' Boy! why call him so?Because, my … [Read more...] about Memorials Of A Tour In Scotland, 1803 XV. The Blind Highland Boy – A Tale Told By The Fire-Side, After Returning To The Vale Of Grasmere, By: William Wordsworth

Fly, some kind Harbinger, to Grasmere-dale!Say that we come, and come by this day's light;Fly upon swiftest wing round field and height,But chiefly let one Cottage hear the tale;There let a mystery of joy prevail,The kitten frolic, like a gamesome sprite,And Rover whine, as at a second sightOf near-approaching good that shall not fail:And from that Infant's face let joy … [Read more...] about Memorials Of A Tour In Scotland, 1803 XIV. Fly, Some Kind Haringer, To Grasmere-Dale, By: William Wordsworth

Age! twine thy brows with fresh spring flowers,And call a train of laughing Hours;And bid them dance, and bid them sing;And thou, too, mingle in the ring!Take to thy heart a new delight;If not, make merry in despiteThat there is One who scorns thy power:But dance! for under Jedborough Tower,A Matron dwells who, though she bearsThe weight of more than seventy years,Lives in the … [Read more...] about Memorials Of A Tour In Scotland, 1803 XIII. The Matron Of Jedborough And Her Husband, By: William Wordsworth