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And, near that lurid light, full well The Astrologer, sage Sydrophel, Where at his
desk and book he sits, Puzzling on high his curious wits ; He whose domain is
held in common With no one but the ANCIENT WOMAN : Cowering beside her
There sits he : in his face you spy No trace of a ferocious air, Nor ever was a
cloudless sky So steady or so fair. The lovely Danish Boy is blest And happy in
his flowery cove : From bloody deeds his thoughts are far ; And yet he warbles
For oft there sits between the Heap That's like an infant's grave in size, And that
same Pond of which I spoke, A Woman in a scarlet cloak, And to herself she cries
, " Oh misery ! oh misery ! Oh woe is me ! oh misery !" At all times of the day and ...
To the stone-table in my garden, Loved haunt of many a summer hour, The
Squire is come ; — his daughter Bess Beside him in the cool recess Sits
blooming like a flower. With these are many more convened ; They know not I
have been so ...
Upon a stone the Woman sits In agony of silent grief — From his own thoughts
did Peter start ; He longs to press her to his heart, From love that cannot find relief
. But roused, as if through every limb Had past a sudden shock of dread, The ...
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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.