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When, smitten by the morning ray, I see thee rise, alert and gay, Then, cheerful
Flower ! my spirits play With kindred gladness : And when, at dusk, by dews
opprest Thou sink'st, the image of thy rest Hath often eased my pensive breast Of
Ere a leaf is on a bush, In the time before the Thrush Has a thought about it's nest
, Thou wilt come with half a call, Spreading out thy glossy breast Like a careless
Prodigal ; Telling tales about the sun, When we've little warmth, or none. Poets ...
Art thou the Bird whom Man loves best, The pious Bird with the scarlet breast, Our
little English Robin ; The Bird that comes about our doors When Autumn winds
are sobbing ? Art thou the Peter of Norway Boors? Their Thomas in Finland, And
In the broad open eye of the solitary sky, They dance, — there are three, as
jocund as free, While they dance on the calm river's breast. Man and Maidens
wheel, They themselves make the Reel, And their Music's a prey which they
seize ; It ...
Faith buried deeper in her own deep breast Her stores — and sighed to find them
insecure ! And Hope was maddened by the drops that fell From shades — her
chosen place of short-lived rest, Which, when they first received her, she had
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the kitten of the filling leaves bp[y willam words worth
My favorite is "Solitary Reaper". When I first read it, I fell in love with the poem. It's like Wordsworth wrote it for me only.
I always feel understood and totally embraced everytime I read this poem and walk away with a full heart.