Trees
~ Joyce Kilmer ~
I think that I shall never see |
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I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud
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.
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.
Note: One of my earliest memories of poetry is of memorizing this one, by Wordsworth, in the third grade. I remember my curiosity being piqued by the phrase: "the bliss of solitude." As a child, it's hard to associate solitude with anything but loneliness, but I seem to appreciate solitude now as an occasional break from the busyness of a schedule, and as an avenue for the natural world to slowly leave its impressions on me. I still find snatches of the poem rising to my lips when I see anything akin to "a host of golden daffodils."
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
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.
Having grown up in New England, the imagery in this poem rings true to me. The speaker expresses the reflective mood that a moment's pause gives him -- a reward for stopping on his purposeful way from A to B and becoming still. I too have had the experience of stopping in the woods in the snow, lying there and suspending belief in the activity of the rest of world, getting acquainted with the magical silence of snow-covered trees. The last two lines seem like an almost absent-minded, reluctant returning to the demands of time, after the brief experience of living absolutely in the present moment. Back to the Tree