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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,
We have no time to stand and stare?

No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows.

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,
And watch her feet, how they can dance.

No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began.

A poor life this if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.

SIMPLICITY

BY EMILY DICKINSON

How happy is the little stone
That rambles in the road alone,
And doesn't care about careers,
And exigencies never fears;
Whose coat of elemental brown
A passing universe put on;
And independent as the sun,
Associates or glows alone,
Fulfilling absolute decree
In casual simplicity.

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-
Deliver it to me whole.

Invite me in and let me work
In that great pattern, planned
In beauty I must kneel before
But cannot understand.

BALLADE TO THEOCRITUS, IN WINTER

ἐσορῶν τὰν Σικελὰν ἐς ἅλα

BY ANDREW LANG

Id. viii, 56.

Ah! leave the smoke, the wealth, the roar
Of London, leave the bustling street,
For still, by the Sicilian shore,

The murmur of the Muse is sweet.
Still, still, the suns of summer greet
The mountain-grave of Helikê,

And shepherds still their songs repeat
Where breaks the blue Sicilian sea.

What though they worship Pan no more,
That guarded once the shepherd's seat,
They chatter of their rustic lore,
They watch the wind among the wheat;
Cicalas chirp, the young lambs bleat,
Where whispers pine to cypress tree;
They count the waves that idly beat
Where breaks the blue Sicilian sea.

Theocritus! thou canst restore
The pleasant years, and over-fleet;
With thee we live as men of yore,
We rest where running waters meet:
And then we turn unwilling feet
And seek the world-so must it be-

We may not linger in the heat
Where breaks the blue Sicilian sea!

ENVOY

Master, when rain, and snow, and sleet
And northern winds are wild, to thee
We come, we rest in thy retreat,
Where breaks the blue Sicilian sea!

CLEAR AND COOL

BY CHARLES KINGSLEY

Clear and cool, clear and cool,

By laughing shallow, and dreaming pool;
Cool and clear, cool and clear,

By shining shingle and foaming weir;
Under the crag where the ouzel sings,

And the ivied wall where the church-bell rings;
Undefiled for the undefiled;

Play by me, bathe in me, mother and child.

Dank and foul, dank and foul,

By the smoky town in its murky cowl;
Foul and dank, foul and dank,
By wharf and sewer and slimy bank;
Darker and darker the further I go,
Baser and baser the richer I grow;

Who dare sport with the sin-defiled?

Shrink from me, turn from me, mother and child.

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