Bath By Amy Lowell

The day is fresh-washed and fair, and there is a smell of tulips and narcissus in the air.
       The sunshine pours in at the bath-room window and bores through the water in the bath-tub in lathes and planes of greenish-white. It cleaves the water into flaws like a jewel, and cracks it to bright light.
       Little spots of sunshine lie on the surface of the water and dance, dance, and their reflections wobble deliciously over the ceiling; a stir of my finger sets them whirring, reeling. I move a foot and the planes of light in the water jar. I lie back and laugh, and let the green-white water, the sun-flawed beryl water, flow over me. The day is almost too bright to bear, the green water covers me from the too bright day. I will lie here awhile and play with the water and the sun spots. The sky is blue and high. A crow flaps by the window, and there is a whiff of tulips and narcissus in the air.

Where the Bee Sucks, There Suck I by William Shakespeare

Where the bee sucks, there suck I:

In a cowslip’s bell I lie;

There I couch when owls do cry.

On the bat’s back I do fly

After summer merrily.   

Merrily, merrily shall I live now

Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.

Another Sunday Morning By Carter Revard

What I walked down to the highway for,

                                   through the summer dawn,

                                            was the Sunday funnies,

                     or so I thought—

                                      but what I remember reading there

                           in the shadowless light

                                               among meadowlarks singing

                     was tracks in the deep warm dust

                                           of the lane, where it parted

                                  with its beige dryness the meadow’s dew—

                    the sleek trail where a snake had crossed

                        and slid into tall grass;

                                                  the stippled parallels

                with marks between them where

                                                  a black blister-beetle had dragged

                                 its bulbous belly across

                      in search of weeds more green;

                                                              the labyrinth of lacelike

            dimples left by a speed-freak

                                        tiger-beetles’s sprints that ended

                                         where it took wing

                              with a little blur of dust-grains;

                                            and stepping through the beetle-trails,

         the wedge-heels and sharp-clawed hands of skunk-track

                              crossing unhurried and walking

                                       along the ditch to find

                                  an easy place for climbing;    

not far past that,

            a line of cat-prints running

                                               straight down the lane and ending

        with deep marks where it leaped

                                                  across the ditch to the meadow

                 for birds asleep or wandering baby rabbits:

and freshly placed this morning,

                                               the slender runes

                                      of bob-whites running, scuffles

                    of dustbaths taken—

                                        and there ahead

crouched low at the lane-edge

                                     under purple pokeweed-berries

                     four quail had seen me,

                    and when I walked slowly

                    on toward them, instead

                           of flying they ran

with a fluid scuttling

                                     on down the lane and stopped frozen

                                               till I came too close

               —then quietly when

                     I expected an explosion

         of wings they took off low and whispering

                and sailed, rocking and tilting

                                          out over the meadow’s tall bluestem,

             dropped down and were gone until

 I heard them whistling, down by the little pond,

                 and whistled back so sharply

               that when I got back to the  house

                  they still were answering

                   and one flew into the elm

                  and whistled from its shadows

                                                  up over the porch where I sat

       reading the funnies while the kittens

                         played with the headlines

                                         till when the first gold sunlight

                 tipped the elm’s leaves he flew

back out to the meadow and sank

                                   down into the sun-brilliant dew

                             on curving wings,

                and my brothers and sisters waked

                                           by the whistling came pouring out

       onto the porch and claimed their share

                                  of the Sunday funnies—

                     and I went on to read

           the headlines of World War Two,

with maps of the struggling armies leaving

                                            tank-tracks over the dunes of Libya

                            and the navies churning their wakes

                             of phosphorescence in the Coral Sea

                             where the ships went down on fire

                             and the waves bobbed and flamed

                          with the maimed survivors , screaming

                                  in Japanese or English until

                                  their gasoline-blistered heads

                                  sank down to the tiger sharks

                                   and the war was lost or won

                                 for children sitting in sunlight,

                                  believing their cause was just

                                 and knowing it would prevail,

                                   as the dew vanished away.

The Daffodils by 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 leaves 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.
 

William Blake- The Tyger

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright, In the forests of the night; What immortal hand or eye, Could frame thy fearful symmetry? In what distant deeps or skies. Burnt the fire of thine eyes? On what wings dare he aspire? What the hand, dare sieze the fire? And what shoulder, & what art, Could twist the sinews of thy heart? And when thy heart began to beat; What dread hand? & what dread feet? What the hammer? what the chain? In what furnace was thy brain? What the anvil? what dread grasp, Dare its deadly terrors clasp? When the stars threw down their spears And water'd heaven with their tears: Did he smile his work to see? Did he who made the Lamb make thee? Tyger! Tyger! burning bright, In the forests of the night: What immortal hand or eye, Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

William Wordsworth- We Are Seven

A simple Child,
That lightly draws its breath,
And feels its life in every limb,
What should it know of death?

I met a little cottage Girl:
She was eight years old, she said;
Her hair was thick with many a curl
That clustered round her head.

She had a rustic, woodland air,
And she was wildly clad:
Her eyes were fair, and very fair;
-- Her beauty made me glad.

Sisters and brothers, little Maid,
How many may you be?
How many? Seven in all, she said,
And wondering looked at me.

And where are they? I pray you tell.
She answered, Seven are we;
And two of us at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea.

Two of us in the church-yard lie,
My sister and my brother;
And, in the church-yard cottage, I
Dwell near them with my mother.

You say that two at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea,
Yet ye are seven! -- I pray you tell,
Sweet Maid, how this may be.

Then did the little Maid reply,
Seven boys and girls are we;
Two of us in the church-yard lie,
Beneath the church-yard tree.

You run about, my little Maid,
Your limbs they are alive;
If two are in the church-yard laid,
Then ye are only five.

Their graves are green, they may be seen,
The little Maid replied,
"Twelve steps or more from my mother's door,
And they are side by side.

"My stockings there I often knit,
My kerchief there I hem;
And there upon the ground I sit,
And sing a song to them.

"And often after sunset, Sir,
When it is light and fair,
I take my little porringer,
And eat my supper there.

"The first that died was sister Jane;
In bed she moaning lay,
Till God released her of her pain;
And then she went away.

"So in the churchyard she was laid;
And, when the grass was dry,
Together round her grave we played,
My brother John and I.

And when the ground was white with snow,
And I could run and slide,
My brother John was forced to go,
And he lies by her side.

How many are you then, said I,
If they two are in heaven?
Quick was the little Maid's reply,
O Master! we are seven.

But they are dead; those two are dead!
Their spirits are in heaven!
'Twas throwing words away; for still
The little Maid would have her will,
And said, Nay, we are seven!"

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