With bowl in hand , ( It may not stand ) Gladdest of the gladsome band , Amid
their own delight and fun , They hear — when every dance is done - They hear -
when every fit is o ' er - The fiddle ' s squeak * — that call to THE WAGGONER .
TO THE CUCKOO . O BLITHE New - comer ! I have heard , I hear thee and
rejoice : O Cuckoo ! shall I call thee Bird , Or but a wandering Voice ? While I am
lying on the grass , Thy loud note smites my ear ! It seems to fill the whole air ' s
Hear not we , unthinking Creatures ! Slaves of Folly , Love , or Strife , Voices of
two different Natures ? Have not We too ? — Yes we have Answers , and we
know not whence ; Echoes from beyond the grave , Recognized intelligence ?
Have we not known — and live we not to tell - That Justice seemed to hear her
final knell ? 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 ...
Five years have passed ; five summers , with the length Of five long winters ! and
again I hear These waters , rolling from their mountain - springs With a sweet
inland murmur . * - Once again Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs , Which on
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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.