I wandered lonely as a cloud

I wandered lonely as a cloud

That floats high o'er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host, of golden daffodils;

Besides the lake, beneath the trees,

Fluttering and dancing in the breezе.

Continuous as the start that shine

And twinkle on the Milky way,

They stretched in never - ending line

Along the margin of a bay;

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee;

A poet could not but be gay,

In such a jocund company:

I gazed - and gazed – but little thought

What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills

And dances with the daffodils.

RobertL. Stevenson

From a Railway Carriage

Faster than fairies, faster than witches,

Bridges and houses, hedges and ditches;

And charging along like troops in a battle,

All through the meadows, the horses and cattle;

All of the sights of the hill and the plain

Fly as thick as driving rain;

And ever again, in the wink of an eye,

Painted stations whistle by.

Here is a child who clambers and scrambles,

All by himself and gathering brambles;

Here is a tramp who stands and gazes;

And there's the green for stringing the daisies!

Here is a cart run away in the road,

Lumping along with man and load;

And here is a mill and there's a river;

Each a glimpse and gone forever!

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Twilight

The twilight is sad and cloudy,

The wind blows wild and free,

And like the wings of sea – birds,

Flash the white caps of the sea.

But in the fisherman's cottage

There shines a ruddier light,

And a little face at the window

Peers out into the night.

Close, close it is pressed to the window

As if those childish eyes

Were looking into the darkness

To see some form arise.

And a woman's waving shadow

Is passing to and fro,

Now rising to the ceiling,

Now bowing and bending low.

What tales do the roaring ocean,

And the night – wind bleak and wild,

As they beat at the crazy casement,

Tell to that little child?

And why do the roaring ocean,

And the night – wind bleak and wild,

As they beat at the heart of the mother

Drive the colour from the cheek?

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The Builders

All are architects of Fate,

Working in these walls of Time:

Some with massive deeds and great,

Some with ornaments of rhyme.

Nothing useless is, or low;

Each thing in its place is best;

And what seems but idle show

Strengthens and supports the rest.

For the structure that we raise,

Time is with materials filled;

Our todays and yesterdays

Are the blocks with which we build.

Truly shape and fashion these;

Leave no yawning gaps between;

Think not, because no man sees,

Such things will remain unseen;

Build today, then, strong and sure,

With a firm and ample base;

And ascending and secure

Shall tomorrow find its place.

Auden Hugh Wystan

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