The Poem Reaper: Reaping the seasons of life through poetry

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And all thy slender watry stores prepare. But let not on thy hook the tortur'd worm, Convulsive, twist in agonizing folds ; Which, by rapacious hunger swallowM deep. Gives, as you tear it from the bleeding breast Of the weak helpless uncomplaining wretch. Harsh pain and horror to the tender hand. Then, issuing cheerful, to thy sport repair ; Chief should the western breezes curling play.

And light o'er ether bear the shadowy clouds, High to their fount, this day, amid their hills.

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And woodlands warbling round, trace up the brooks ; The next, pursue their rocky-channel'd maze, Down to the river, in whose ample wave Their little naiads love to sport at large. There throw, nice-judging, the delusive fly ; And as you lead it round in artful curve. With eye attentive mark the springing game. And to the shelving shore slow-dragging some. But should you lure From his dark haunt, beneath the tangled roots Of pendant trees, the monarch of the brook.

W.Wordsworth: The Solitary Reaper

Behoves you then to ply your finest art. With sullen plunge. At once he darts along. Deep struck, and runs out all the lengthened line ; Then seeks the farthest ooze, the sheltering weed, The cavem'd bank, his old secure abode j And flies aloft, and flounces round the pool. Indignant of the guile.

With yielding hand.


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Gives way, you, now retiring, following now Across the stream, exhaust his idle rage : Till floating broad upon his breathless side. Even shooting listless languor thro' the deeps ; Then seek the bank where flowering elders croud, Where scatterM wild the lily of the vale Its balmy essence breathes, where cowslips hang The dewy head, where purple violets lurk. With all the lowly children of the shade : Or lie reclin'd beneath yon spreading ash, Hung o'er the steep ; whence, borne on liquid wing. Or catch thyself the landskip, gliding swift Athwart imagination's vivid eye : Or by the vocal woods and waters luUM, And lost in lonely musing, in the dream, Confus'd, of careless solitude, where mix Ten thousand wandering images of things, Soothe every gust of passion into peace ; SPRING.

That waken, not disturb, the tranquil mind. Can imagination boast.

Amid its gay creation, hues like hers? Or can it mix them with that matchless skill, And lose them in each other, as appears In every bud that blows? If fancy then Unequal fails beneath the pleasing task.

Before I Got My Eye Put Out - The Poetry of Emily Dickinson: Crash Course English Lit #8

Ah what shall language do? To life approaching, may perfume my lays With that fine oil, those aromatic gales, That inexhaustive flow continual round? Yet, tho' successless, will the toil delight. Come then, ye virgins and ye youths, whose hearts Have felt the raptures of refining love ; And thou, Amanda, come, pride of my song! Shines lively fancy and the feeling heart : Oh come! Fresh-blooming flowers, to grace thy braided hair. Of growth luxuriant ; or the humid bank. In fair profusion, decks.

Long let us walk, Where the breeze blows from yon extended field Of blossom'd beans. Arabia cannot boast A fuller gale of joy, than, liberal, thence Breathes thro' the sense, and takes the ravish'd soul. Nor is the mead unworthy of thy foot, Full of fresh verdure, and unnumbered flowers.

pain | Power Poetry

The negligence of Nature, wide, and wild ; Where, undisguis'd by mimic Art, she spreads Unbounded beauty to the roving eye. Here their delicious task the fervent bees, In swarming millions, tend : Around, athwart. And yellow load them with the luscious spoil. At length the finish'd garden to the view Its vistas opens, and its alleys green.

A Closer Look at the Poem

But why so far excursive? Along these blushing borders, bright with dew. And in yon mingFed wilderness of flowers, Fair-handed Spring unbosoms every grace ; Throws out the snow-drop, and the crocus firjt j The daisy, primrose, violet darkly blue. The varied coloias run ; and while they break On the charm'd eye, th' exulting florist marks, With secret pride, the wonders of his hand. No gradual bloom is wanting ; from the bud.

Nor hyacinths, of purest virgin white, Low-bent, and blushing inward ; nor jonquils, Of potent fragrance ; nor Narcissus fair. As o'er the fabled fountain 'hanging still ; Nor broad carnations, nor gay-spotted pinks ; Nor, shower'd from every bush, the damask-rose. Infinite numbers, delicacies, smells, With hues on hues expression cannot paint.

The breath of Nature, and her endless bloom.

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Hail, Source of Being! Universal Soul Of heaven and earth! Essential Presence, hail! Hast the great whole into perfection touchM. By Thee the various vegetative tribes. Wrapt in a filmy net, and clad with leaves. Draw the live ether, and imbibe the dew : By Thee disposed into congenial soils. And lively fermentation, mounting, spreads All this innumerous-colour'd scene of things. As rising from the vegetable world My theme ascends, with equal wing ascend, My panting Muse!

In gallant thought, to plume the painted wing ; And try again the long-forgotten gtrain. At first faint- warbled. Every copse Deep-tangled, tree irregular, and bush Bending with dewy moisture, o'er the heads Of the coy quiristers that lodge within. Are prodigal of harmony. Join'd to these, Innumerous songsters, in the freshening shade Of new-sprung leaves, their modulations mix Mellifluous. The jay, the rook, the daw. And each harsh pipe, discordant heard alone. Hence the glossy kind Try every winning way inventive love Can dictate ; and in courtship to their mates Pour forth their little souls.

First, wide around. With distant awe, in airy rings they rove ; Endeavouring by a thousand tricks to catch The cunning, conscious, half-averted glance Of the regardless charmer. Should she seem Softening the least approvance to bestow. Their colours burnish, and by hope inspired, They brisk advance ; then on a sudden struck. And shiver every feather with desire.

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