A trigger to the haunted minds!

Daffodils - William Wordsworth

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars 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.

 

"A poet could not but be gay"

Agreed. On a not so gay note,  thanks for the piece Grace.  But tis hardly is the time for romanticism.

 Did the Twentieth century's perception of "gay" ever exist in the Eighteenth century? Undeniably the word itself has undergone metamorphism, and that too a big time!

Acquainted with the Night - Robert Frost

I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain -- and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.

I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.

I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,

But not to call me back or say good-bye;
And further still at an unearthly height,
O luminary clock against the sky

Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night.

.
Wordsworth, once more.

The Solitary Reaper -- just for our old friend Oys.

Behold her, single in the field,

Yon solitary Highland Lass !

Reaping and singing by herself ;

Stop here, or gently pass !

Alone she cuts and binds the grain,

And sings a melancholy strain ;

O listen ! for the vale profound

Is overflowing with the sound.

No nightingale did ever chaunt

More welcome notes to weary bands

Of travellers in some shady haunt,

Among Arabian sands :

A voice so thrilling ne’er was heard

In spring-time from the cuckoo-bird,

Breaking the silence of the seas

Among the farthest Hebrides.

Will no one tell me what she sings ? –

Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow

For old, unhappy, far-off things,

And battles long ago :

Or is it some more humble lay,

Familiar matter of to-day ?

Some natural sorry, loss, or pain,

That has been, and may be again ?

Whate’er the theme, the maiden sang

As if her song could have no ending ;

I saw her singing at her work,

And o’er the sickle bending ; –

I listened, motionless and still ;

And, as I mounted up the hill,

The music in my heart I bore,

Long after it was heard no more.

nice thread Gracuuu :)

 

The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveller, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference

...Robert Frost

A Nocturnal Reverie -  Anne Finch   
   

In such a night, when every louder wind
Is to its distant cavern safe confined;
And only gentle Zephyr fans his wings,
And lonely Philomel, still waking, sings;
Or from some tree, famed for the owl's delight,
She, hollowing clear, directs the wand'rer right:
In such a night, when passing clouds give place,
Or thinly veil the heav'ns' mysterious face;
When in some river, overhung with green,
The waving moon and trembling leaves are seen;
When freshened grass now bears itself upright,
And makes cool banks to pleasing rest invite,
Whence springs the woodbind, and the bramble-rose,
And where the sleepy cowslip sheltered grows;
Whilst now a paler hue the foxglove takes,
Yet checkers still with red the dusky brakes
When scattered glow-worms, but in twilight fine,
Shew trivial beauties watch their hour to shine;
Whilst Salisb'ry stands the test of every light,
In perfect charms, and perfect virtue bright:
When odors, which declined repelling day,
Through temp'rate air uninterrupted stray;
When darkened groves their softest shadows wear,
And falling waters we distinctly hear;
When through the gloom more venerable shows
Some ancient fabric, awful in repose,
While sunburnt hills their swarthy looks conceal,
And swelling haycocks thicken up the vale:
When the loosed horse now, as his pasture leads,
Comes slowly grazing through th' adjoining meads,
Whose stealing pace, and lengthened shade we fear,
Till torn-up forage in his teeth we hear:
When nibbling sheep at large pursue their food,
And unmolested kine rechew the cud;
When curlews cry beneath the village walls,
And to her straggling brood the partridge calls;
Their shortlived jubilee the creatures keep,
Which but endures, whilst tyrant man does sleep;
When a sedate content the spirit feels,
And no fierce light disturbs, whilst it reveals;
But silent musings urge the mind to seek
Something, too high for syllables to speak;
Till the free soul to a composedness charmed,
Finding the elements of rage disarmed,
O'er all below a solemn quiet grown,
Joys in th' inferior world, and thinks it like her own:
In such a night let me abroad remain,
Till morning breaks, and all's confused again;
Our cares, our toils, our clamors are renewed,
Or pleasures, seldom reached, again pursued.

an all inspiring one ....

[IF]

If you can keep your head when all about you Are losing theirs and blaming it on you, If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you But make allowance for their doubting too, If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, Or being lied about, don't deal in lies, Or being hated, don't give way to hating, And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise: If you can dream--and not make dreams your master, If you can think--and not make thoughts your aim; If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster And treat those two impostors just the same; If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken, And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools: If you can make one heap of all your winnings And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss, And lose, and start again at your beginnings And never breath a word about your loss; If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew To serve your turn long after they are gone, And so hold on when there is nothing in you Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!" If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, Or walk with kings--nor lose the common touch, If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you; If all men count with you, but none too much, If you can fill the unforgiving minute With sixty seconds' worth of distance run, Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it, And--which is more--you'll be a Man, my son! --Rudyard Kipling

 Pigglu --- we've miles to go.  ;-)

"Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening" bye Robert Frost

 Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

 

 O Captain! My Captain! by Walt Whitman

O CAPTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip is done;
The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won;
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up-for you the flag is flung-for you the bugle trills;
For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths-for you the shores a-crowding;
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head;
It is some dream that on the deck,
You've fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won;
Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

 

 How far below the grave is? Shall we start digging? :)

My Heart Leaps Up When I Behold - William Wordsworth

My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky:
So was it when my life began,
So is it now I am a man,
So be it when I shall grow old
Or let me die!
The Child is father of the Man:
And I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.

"She Dwelt Among Untrodden Ways"

She dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dove,
Maid whom there were none to praise
And very few to love:

A violet by a mosy tone
Half hidden from the eye!
---Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky.

She lived unknown, and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be;
But she is in her grave, and, oh,
The difference to me!

William Wordsworth

Oh, the poetry of life! ;)

Lake Shore by Billy Collins

It is not easy to admit this on paper,
but the surface of the lake
is sparkling very much like diamonds,

and I hesitate to say the wind is whispering,
but it seems to be doing something
very close to that this morning.

And if these clouds
do not look like fluffy balls of cotton,
I am not sure what they look like.

On the other hand,
the large, newly drilled hole
halfway up this maple tree

is where a woodpecker
must have worked half a day
just banging away at the good wood

'ere tis a long but lovely one ;)

      Alfred Noyes (1880-1958)

                                   The Highwayman

                                        PART ONE

                                                 I

    THE wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,

    The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,

    The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,

    And the highwayman came riding—

                      Riding—riding—

    The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

                                                 II

    He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,

    A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin;

    They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh!

    And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,

                      His pistol butts a-twinkle,

    His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.

                                                 III

    Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,

    And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred;

    He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there

    But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,

                      Bess, the landlord's daughter,

    Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

                                                 IV

    And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked

    Where Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked;

    His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,

    But he loved the landlord's daughter,

                      The landlord's red-lipped daughter,

    Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—

                                                 V

    "One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize to-night,

    But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;

    Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,

    Then look for me by moonlight,

                      Watch for me by moonlight,

    I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."

                                                 VI

    He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,

    But she loosened her hair i' the casement! His face burnt like a brand

    As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;

    And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,

                      (Oh, sweet, black waves in the moonlight!)

    Then he tugged at his rein in the moonliglt, and galloped away to the West.

 

                                        PART TWO

                                                 I

    He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon;

    And out o' the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon,

    When the road was a gypsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor,

    A red-coat troop came marching—

                      Marching—marching—

    King George's men came matching, up to the old inn-door.

                                                 II

    They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead,

    But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed;

    Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!

    There was death at every window;

                      And hell at one dark window;

    For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.

                                                 III

    They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest;

    They had bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!

    "Now, keep good watch!" and they kissed her.

                      She heard the dead man say—

    Look for me by moonlight;

                      Watch for me by moonlight;

    I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!

                                                 IV

    She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!

    She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!

    They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years,

    Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,

                      Cold, on the stroke of midnight,

    The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!

                                                 V

    The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest!

    Up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast,

    She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;

    For the road lay bare in the moonlight;

                      Blank and bare in the moonlight;

    And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love's refrain .

                                                 VI

        Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear;

    Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?

    Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,

    The highwayman came riding,

                      Riding, riding!

    The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still!

                                                 VII

    Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night!

    Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!

    Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,

    Then her finger moved in the moonlight,

                      Her musket shattered the moonlight,

    Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death.

                                                 VIII

    He turned; he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood

    Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!

    Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear

    How Bess, the landlord's daughter,

                      The landlord's black-eyed daughter,

    Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.

                                                 IX

    Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,

    With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!

    Blood-red were his spurs i' the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat,

    When they shot him down on the highway,

                      Down like a dog on the highway,

    And he lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.

                  *           *           *           *           *           *

                                                 X

    And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,

    When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,

    When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,

    A highwayman comes riding—

                      Riding—riding—

    A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.

                                                 XI

    Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard;

    He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred;

    He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there

    But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,

                      Bess, the landlord's daughter,

    Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

Banira Giri











Wound










Your full force was first raised against me




Let this spear-tipped stream flow on…


the gullies of my eyes greening your fields


Let this crop of pain ripen,


this harvest ripening from wounds




You and I? Let's


enjoin ourselves in friendship


Always!





          How engaging!





Before dark where the forked road joins I ran into you


Before I knew what was happening, you raped me

Then and there, witness of this cruel intimacy,


drops of virgin blood spread on the gravel of the crossroads


like an unclaimed corpse





At each moment


every day


be it morning or night


every minute

coming & going time & again


those stains return to me


my memory of you





Violation!





From the outset


          your every thrust

blazed as fire,

          tore through the skin as thorns do,

pierced as a blade,


          appeared as the night of the dark moon






But these days


          your every stroke,


a mere touch,

          and as for my self


I've become


          the oven that contains the flame,

the bush that raises up thorns,


          the sheath that holds the blade,


fangs for the cobra's deadly poison,


          darkness of the night that swallows the moon





Like a tigress tamed in the circus,


a female snake soothed by the charmer's tune,


wound, so quickly was I transformed in you




Now you and I

          have become nail & flesh,

miser and money,

          footpath and footsole





Tread upon me with all your thieves & robbers


For this is certain: you'll tire, not me!




Let the variegated wishes for life germinating in me


be winnowed by your stormy gusts. Finish it! Destroy!


Wound! Maul and smother me


Lick me with your slathering flames


For I convert your force I'm hardened to it





Where you store your weaponry of thrust and violation,


I burrow and hide, grazed from all sides by your firing guns


Flame-burst upon flame-burst everywhere in every corner





But it is surely so, violator


          Violation! tearing your ears, listen





Your armory will be emptied —I will not


your armory will be emptied —I will not