Delphi Poetry Anthology: The World's Greatest Poems (Delphi Poets Series Book 50)

by Homer

  Am I enough beloved.’

  ‘Now both himself and me he wrongs,

  The man who thus complains!

  I live and sing my idle songs

  Upon these happy plains: 60

  ‘And Matthew, for thy children dead

  I’ll be a son to thee!’

  At this he grasp’d my hand and said,

  ‘Alas! that cannot be.’

  We rose up from the fountain-side; 65

  And down the smooth descent

  Of the green sheep-track did we glide,

  And through the wood we went;

  And ere we came to Leonard’s rock

  He sang those witty rhymes 70

  About the crazy old church-clock,

  And the bewilder’d chimes.

  List of Poems in Alphabetical Order

  List of Poets in Alphabetical Order

  Written in March

  While resting on the Bridge at the foot of Brother’s Water

  William Wordsworth (1770–1850)

  THE COCK is crowing,

  The stream is flowing,

  The small birds twitter,

  The lake doth glitter,

  The green field sleeps in the sun; 5

  The oldest and youngest

  Are at work with the strongest;

  The cattle are grazing,

  Their heads never raising;

  There are forty feeding like one! 10

  Like an army defeated

  The Snow hath retreated,

  And now doth fare ill

  On the top of the bare hill;

  The Ploughboy is whooping — anon — anon: 15

  There’s joy in the mountains;

  There’s life in the fountains;

  Small clouds are sailing,

  Blue sky prevailing;

  The rain is over and gone! 20

  List of Poems in Alphabetical Order

  List of Poets in Alphabetical Order

  Nature and the Poet

  Suggested by a Picture of Peele Castle in a Storm, painted by Sir George Beaumont

  William Wordsworth (1770–1850)

  I WAS thy neighbour once, thou rugged Pile!

  Four summer weeks I dwelt in sight of thee:

  I saw thee every day; and all the while

  Thy form was sleeping on a glassy sea.

  So pure the sky, so quiet was the air! 5

  So like, so very like, was day to day!

  Whene’er I look’d, thy image still was there;

  It trembled, but it never pass’d away.

  How perfect was the calm! It seem’d no sleep,

  No mood, which season takes away, or brings: 10

  I could have fancied that the mighty Deep

  Was even the gentlest of all gentle things.

  Ah! then if mine had been the painter’s hand

  To express what then I saw; and add the gleam,

  The light that never was on sea or land, 15

  The consecration, and the Poet’s dream. —

  I would have planted thee, thou hoary pile,

  Amid a world how different from this!

  Beside a sea that could not cease to smile;

  On tranquil land, beneath a sky of bliss. 20

  A picture had it been of lasting ease,

  Elysian quiet, without toil or strife;

  No motion but the moving tide, a breeze,

  Or merely silent Nature’s breathing life.

  Such, in the fond illusion of my heart, 25

  Such picture would I at that time have made;

  And seen the soul of truth in every part,

  A steadfast peace that might not be betray’d.

  So once it would have been,— ’tis so no more;

  I have submitted to a new control: 30

  A power is gone, which nothing can restore;

  A deep distress hath humanized my soul.

  Not for a moment could I now behold

  A smiling sea, and be what I have been:

  The feeling of my loss will ne’er be old; 35

  This, which I know, I speak with mind serene.

  Then, Beaumont, Friend! who would have been the friend

  If he had lived, of him whom I deplore,

  This work of thine I blame not, but commend;

  This sea in anger, and that dismal shore. 40

  O ’tis a passionate work! — yet wise and well,

  Well chosen is the spirit that is here;

  That hulk which labours in the deadly swell,

  This rueful sky, this pageantry of fear!

  And this huge Castle, standing here sublime, 45

  I love to see the look with which it braves,

  — Cased in the unfeeling armour of old time —

  The lightning, the fierce wind, and trampling waves.

  — Farewell, farewell the heart that lives alone,

  Housed in a dream, at distance from the Kind! 50

  Such happiness, wherever it be known

  Is to be pitied; for ’tis surely blind.

  But welcome fortitude, and patient cheer,

  And frequent sights of what is to be borne!

  Such sights, or worse, as are before me here: — 55

  Not without hope we suffer and we mourn.

  List of Poems in Alphabetical Order

  List of Poets in Alphabetical Order

  Ruth: Or the Influences of Nature

  William Wordsworth (1770–1850)

  WHEN Ruth was left half desolate

  Her father took another mate;

  And Ruth, not seven years old,

  A slighted child, at her own will

  Went wandering over dale and hill, 5

  In thoughtless freedom bold.

  And she had made a pipe of straw,

  And music from that pipe could draw

  Like sounds of wind and floods;

  Had built a bower upon the green, 10

  As if she from her birth had been

  An infant of the woods.

  Beneath her father’s roof, alone

  She seem’d to live; her thoughts her own;

  Herself her own delight: 15

  Pleased with herself, nor sad nor gay,

  She passed her time; and in this way

  Grew up to woman’s height.

  There came a youth from Georgia’s shore —

  A military casque he wore 20

  With splendid feathers drest;

  He brought them from the Cherokees;

  The feathers nodded in the breeze

  And made a gallant crest.

  From Indian blood you deem him sprung: 25

  But no! he spake the English tongue

  And bore a soldier’s name;

  And, when America was free

  From battle and from jeopardy,

  He ‘cross the ocean came. 30

  With hues of genius on his cheek,

  In finest tones the youth could speak:

  — While he was yet a boy

  The moon, the glory of the sun,

  And streams that murmur as they run 35

  Had been his dearest joy.

  He was a lovely youth! I guess

  The panther in the wilderness

  Was not so fair as he;

  And when he chose to sport and play, 40

  No dolphin ever was so gay

  Upon the tropic sea.

  Among the Indians he had fought;

  And with him many tales he brought

  Of pleasure and of fear; 45

  Such tales as, told to any maid

  By such a youth, in the green shade,

  Were perilous to hear.

  He told of girls, a happy rout!

  Who quit their fold with dance and shout, 50

  Their pleasant Indian town,

  To gather strawberries all day long;

  Returning with a choral song

  When daylight is gone down.

  He spake of plants that hourly change 55

&nb
sp; Their blossoms, through a boundless range

  Of intermingling hues;

  With budding, fading, faded flowers,

  They stand the wonder of the bowers

  From morn to evening dews. 60

  He told of the magnolia, spread

  High as a cloud, high over head!

  The cypress and her spire;

  — Of flowers that with one scarlet gleam

  Cover a hundred leagues, and seem 65

  To set the hills on fire.

  The youth of green savannahs spake,

  And many an endless, endless lake

  With all its fairy crowds

  Of islands, that together lie 70

  As quietly as spots of sky

  Among the evening clouds.

  ‘And,’ then he said, ‘how sweet it were

  A fisher or a hunter there,

  In sunshine or in shade 75

  To wander with an easy mind,

  And build a household fire, and find

  A home in every glade!

  ‘What days and what bright years! Ah me!

  Our life were life indeed, with thee 80

  So pass’d in quiet bliss;

  And all the while,’ said he, ‘to know

  That we were in a world of woe,

  On such an earth as this!’

  And then he sometimes interwove 85

  Fond thoughts about a father’s love,

  ‘For there,’ said he, ‘are spun

  Around the heart such tender ties,

  That our own children to our eyes

  Are dearer than the sun. 90

  ‘Sweet Ruth! and could you go with me

  My helpmate in the woods to be,

  Our shed at night to rear;

  Or run, my own adopted bride,

  A sylvan huntress at my side, 95

  And drive the flying deer!

  ‘Beloved Ruth!’ — No more he said.

  The wakeful Ruth at midnight shed

  A solitary tear:

  She thought again — and did agree 100

  With him to sail across the sea,

  And drive the flying deer.

  ‘And now, as fitting is and right,

  We in the church our faith will plight,

  A husband and a wife.’ 105

  Even so they did; and I may say

  That to sweet Ruth that happy day

  Was more than human life.

  Through dream and vision did she sink,

  Delighted all the while to think 110

  That, on those lonesome floods

  And green savannahs, she should share

  His board with lawful joy, and bear

  His name in the wild woods.

  But, as you have before been told, 115

  This stripling, sportive, gay, and bold,

  And with his dancing crest

  So beautiful, through savage lands

  Had roam’d about, with vagrant bands

  Of Indians in the West. 120

  The wind, the tempest roaring high,

  The tumult of a tropic sky

  Might well be dangerous food

  For him, a youth to whom was given

  So much of earth — so much of heaven, 125

  And such impetuous blood.

  Whatever in those climes he found

  Irregular in sight or sound

  Did to his mind impart

  A kindred impulse, seem’d allied 130

  To his own powers, and justified

  The workings of his heart.

  Nor less, to feed voluptuous thought,

  The beauteous forms of Nature wrought, —

  Fair trees and gorgeous flowers; 135

  The breezes their own languor lent;

  The stars had feelings, which they sent

  Into those favour’d bowers.

  Yet, in his worst pursuits, I ween

  That sometimes there did intervene 140

  Pure hopes of high intent:

  For passions link’d to forms so fair

  And stately, needs must have their share

  Of noble sentiment.

  But ill he lived, much evil saw, 145

  With men to whom no better law

  Nor better life was known;

  Deliberately and undeceived

  Those wild men’s vices he received,

  And gave them back his own. 150

  His genius and his moral frame

  Were thus impair’d, and he became

  The slave of low desires;

  A man who without self-control

  Would seek what the degraded soul 155

  Unworthily admires.

  And yet he with no feign’d delight

  Had woo’d the maiden, day and night

  Had loved her, night and morn:

  What could he less than love a maid 160

  Whose heart with so much nature play’d —

  So kind and so forlorn?

  Sometimes most earnestly he said,

  ‘O Ruth! I have been worse than dead;

  False thoughts, thoughts bold and vain 165

  Encompass’d me on every side

  When I, in confidence and pride,

  Had cross’d the Atlantic main.

  ‘Before me shone a glorious world

  Fresh as a banner bright, unfurl’d 170

  To music suddenly:

  I look’d upon those hills and plains,

  And seem’d as if let loose from chains

  To live at liberty!

  ‘No more of this — for now, by thee, 175

  Dear Ruth! more happily set free,

  With nobler zeal I burn;

  My soul from darkness is released

  Like the whole sky when to the east

  The morning doth return.’ 180

  Full soon that better mind was gone;

  No hope, no wish remain’d, not one, —

  They stirr’d him now no more;

  New objects did new pleasure give,

  And once again he wish’d to live 185

  As lawless as before.

  Meanwhile, as thus with him it fared,

  They for the voyage were prepared,

  And went to the sea-shore:

  But, when they thither came, the youth 190

  Deserted his poor bride, and Ruth

  Could never find him more.

  God help thee, Ruth! — Such pains she had

  That she in half a year was mad

  And in a prison housed; 195

  And there, exulting in her wrongs

  Among the music of her songs

  She fearfully caroused.

  Yet sometimes milder hours she knew,

  Nor wanted sun, nor rain, nor dew, 200

  Nor pastimes of the May,

  — They all were with her in her cell;

  And a clear brook with cheerful knell

  Did o’er the pebbles play.

  When Ruth three seasons thus had lain, 205

  There came a respite to her pain;

  She from her prison fled;

  But of the vagrant none took thought;

  And where it liked her best she sought

  Her shelter and her bread. 210

  Among the fields she breathed again:

  The master-current of her brain

  Ran permanent and free;

  And, coming to the banks of Tone,

  There did she rest; and dwell alone 215

  Under the greenwood tree.

  The engines of her pain, the tools

  That shaped her sorrow, rocks and pools,

  And airs that gently stir

  The vernal leaves — she loved them still, 220

  Nor ever tax’d them with the ill

  Which had been done to her.

  A barn her winter bed supplies;

  But, till the warmth of summer skies

  And summer days is gone, 225

  (And all do in this tale agree)

  She sleeps beneath
the greenwood tree,

  And other home hath none.

  An innocent life, yet far astray!

  And Ruth will, long before her day, 230

  Be broken down and old.

  Sore aches she needs must have! but less

  Of mind, than body’s wretchedness,

  From damp, and rain, and cold.

  If she is prest by want of food 235

  She from her dwelling in the wood

  Repairs to a road-side;

  And there she begs at one steep place,

  Where up and down with easy pace

  The horsemen-travellers ride. 240

  That oaten pipe of hers is mute

  Or thrown away: but with a flute

  Her loneliness she cheers;

  This flute, made of a hemlock stalk,

  At evening in his homeward walk 245

  The Quantock woodman hears.

  I, too, have pass’d her on the hills

  Setting her little water-mills

  By spouts and fountains wild —

  Such small machinery as she turn’d 250

  Ere she had wept, ere she had mourn’d,

  A young and happy child!

  Farewell! and when thy days are told,

  Ill-fated Ruth! in hallow’d mould

  Thy corpse shall buried be; 255

  For thee a funeral bell shall ring,

  And all the congregation sing

  A Christian psalm for thee.

  List of Poems in Alphabetical Order

  List of Poets in Alphabetical Order

  A Lesson

  William Wordsworth (1770–1850)

  THERE is a flower, the Lesser Celandine,

  That shrinks like many more from cold and rain,

  And the first moment that the sun may shine,

  Bright as the sun himself, ’tis out again!