THE WORLD BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH The world is too much with us; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: Little we see in Nature that is ours; We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! This sea that bares her bosom to the moon; The winds that will be howling at all hours, And are up-gather'd now like sleeping flowers; For this, for everything, we are out of tune; It moves us not.-Great God! I'd rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn; So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn. LEISURE BY WILLIAM H. DAVIES What is this life if, full of care, No time to stand beneath the boughs No time to see, when woods we pass, Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass. No time to see, in broad daylight, Streams full of stars, like skies at night. No time to turn at Beauty's glance, No time to wait till her mouth can A poor life this if, full of care, SIMPLICITY BY EMILY DICKINSON How happy is the little stone NATURE CURE BY JEAN STARR UNTERMEYER Tell it again in stronger tones And make your meaning plain: White cliff, that stabs the water's side Without the crease of pain. You gallant maple, teasing birch, And ruffled, stately pine, There is a sturdy sap in you Share it, let it be mine. Resistless grass, to every wind And every scuffling tread, You yield and bend a patient back. So let me bow my head. And you, dear lake, whose candid gaze Resists my importunate soul, You hide a secret in your depths- Invite me in and let me work BALLADE TO THEOCRITUS, IN WINTER ἐσορῶν τὰν Σικελὰν ἐς ἅλα BY ANDREW LANG Id. viii, 56. Ah! leave the smoke, the wealth, the roar The murmur of the Muse is sweet. And shepherds still their songs repeat What though they worship Pan no more, Theocritus! thou canst restore We may not linger in the heat ENVOY Master, when rain, and snow, and sleet CLEAR AND COOL BY CHARLES KINGSLEY Clear and cool, clear and cool, By laughing shallow, and dreaming pool; By shining shingle and foaming weir; And the ivied wall where the church-bell rings; Play by me, bathe in me, mother and child. Dank and foul, dank and foul, By the smoky town in its murky cowl; Who dare sport with the sin-defiled? Shrink from me, turn from me, mother and child. |