Peace of Heart

A small archive of poetry found in second-hand and vintage books.

[peaceofheartt]

The Mountain Ash

By William Wordsworth (1770 - 1850)

The mountain ash

No eye can overlook, when 'mid a grove

Of yet unfaded trees she lifts her head

Decked with autumnal berries, that outshine

Spring's richest blossoms; and ye may have marked

By a brook-side or solitary tarn,

How she her station doth adorn: -- the pool

Glows at her feet; and all the gloomy rocks

Are brightened round her.

[peaceofheartt]

 Nutting

By William Wordsworth (1770 - 1850)

—It seems a day

(I speak of one from many singled out)

One of those heavenly days that cannot die;

When, in the eagerness of boyish hope,

I left our cottage-threshold, sallying forth

With a huge wallet o'er my shoulders slung,

A nutting-crook in hand; and turned my steps

Tow'rd some far-distant wood, a Figure quaint,

Tricked out in proud disguise of cast-off weeds

Which for that service had been husbanded,

By exhortation of my frugal Dame—

Motley accoutrement, of power to smile

At thorns, and brakes, and brambles,—and, in truth,

More ragged than need was! O'er pathless rocks,

Through beds of matted fern, and tangled thickets,

Forcing my way, I came to one dear nook

Unvisited, where not a broken bough

Drooped with its withered leaves, ungracious sign

Of devastation; but the hazels rose

Tall and erect, with tempting clusters hung,

A virgin scene!—A little while I stood,

Breathing with such suppression of the heart

As joy delights in; and, with wise restraint

Voluptuous, fearless of a rival, eyed

The banquet;—or beneath the trees I sate

Among the flowers, and with the flowers I played;

A temper known to those, who, after long

And weary expectation, have been blest

With sudden happiness beyond all hope.

Perhaps it was a bower beneath whose leaves

The violets of five seasons re-appear

And fade, unseen by any human eye;

Where fairy water-breaks do murmur on

For ever; and I saw the sparkling foam,

And—with my cheek on one of those green stones

That, fleeced with moss, under the shady trees,

Lay round me, scattered like a flock of sheep—

I heard the murmur, and the murmuring sound,

In that sweet mood when pleasure loves to pay

Tribute to ease; and, of its joy secure,

The heart luxuriates with indifferent things,

Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones,

And on the vacant air. Then up I rose,

And dragged to earth both branch and bough, with crash

And merciless ravage: and the shady nook

Of hazels, and the green and mossy bower,

Deformed and sullied, patiently gave up

Their quiet being: and, unless I now

Confound my present feelings with the past;

Ere from the mutilated bower I turned

Exulting, rich beyond the wealth of kings,

I felt a sense of pain when I beheld

The silent trees, and saw the intruding sky.—

Then, dearest Maiden, move along these shades

In gentleness of heart; with gentle hand

Touch—for there is a spirit in the woods.

[peaceofheartt]

A Perfect Woman

By William Wordsworth (1770 - 1850)

She was a phantom of delight When first she gleam'd upon my sight; A lovely apparition, sent To be a moment's ornament; Her eyes as stars of twilight fair; Like twilight's, too, her dusky hair; But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful dawn; A dancing shape, an image gay, To haunt, to startle, and waylay.

I saw her upon nearer view, A Spirit, yet a Woman too! Her household motions light and free, And steps of virgin liberty; A countenance in which did meet Sweet records, promises as sweet; A creature not too bright or good For human nature's daily food; For transient sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.

And now I see with eye serene The very pulse of the machine; A being breathing thoughtful breath, A traveller between life and death; The reason firm, the temperate will, Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill; A perfect Woman, nobly plann’d, To warn, to comfort, and command; And yet a Spirit still, and bright With something of angelic light.

[peaceofheartt]

Night at Sea

By John Wilson (1785 - 1854)

It is the midnight hour: -- the beauteous Sea,

Calm as the cloudless heaven, the heaven discloses,

While many a sparkling star, in quiet glee,

Far down within the watery sky reposes.

As if the Ocean's heart were stirred

With inward life, a sound is heard,

Like that of dreamer murmuring in his sleep;

'Tis partly the billow, and partly the air,

That lies like a garment floating fair

Above the happy Deep.

The Sea, I ween, cannot be fanned

By evening freshness from the land,

For the land it is far away.

But God hath willed that the sky-born breeze

In the centre of the loneliest seas

Should ever sport and play.

The mighty moon she sits above,

Encircled with a zone of love,

A zone of dim and tender light

That makes her wakeful eye more bright;

She seems to shine with a sunny ray,

And the night looks like a mellowed day.

The gracious mistress of the main

Hath now an undisturbed reign,

And from her silent throne looks down,

As upon children of her own,

On the waves that lend their gentle breast

In gladness for her couch of rest.

My spirit sleeps amid the calm,

The sleep of a new delight;

And hopes that she ne'er may wake again,

But for ever hang o'er the lovely main

And adore the lovely night.

Scarce conscious of an earthly frame,

She glides away like a lambent flame,

And in her bliss she sings;

Now touching softly the ocean's breast,

Now 'mid the stars she lies at rest,

As if she sailed on wings!

Now bold as the brightest star that glows,

More brightly since at first it rose,

Looks down on the far-off flood;

And there all breathless and alone,

As the sky where she soars were a world of her own,

She mocketh the gentle mighty one

As he lies in his quiet mood.

"Art thou," she breathes, "the tyrant grim

That scoffs at human prayers,

Answering with prouder roaring the while,

As it rises from some lonely isle,

Through groans raised wild, the hopeless hymn

Of shipwrecked mariners?

Oh! thou art as harmless as a child

Weary with joy, and reconciled

For sleep now to change its play;

And now that night hath stayed thy race,

Smiles wander o'er thy placid face,

As if thy dreams were gay."

[peaceofheartt]

Water-Fowl

By William Wordsworth (1770 - 1850)

Mark how the feathered tenants of the flood,

With grace of motion that might scarcely seem

Inferior to angelical, prolong

Their curious pastime! shaping in mid-air

(And sometimes with ambitious wing that soars

High as the level of the mountain-tops)

A circuit ampler than the lake beneath,

Their own domain; but ever, while intent

On tracing and retracing that large round,

Their jubilant activity evolves

Hundreds of curves and circles, to and fro,

Upward and downward, progress intricate

Yet unperplexed, as if one spirit swayed

Their indefatigable flight. -- 'Tis done --

Ten times, or more, I fancied it had ceased;

But lo! the vanished company again

Ascending; -- they approach -- I hear their wings

Faint, faint at first; and then an eager sound,

Past in a moment -- and as faint again!

They tempt the sun to sport amid their plumes,

They tempt the water, or the gleaming ice,

To show them a fair image; -- tis themselves,

Their own fair forms, upon the glimmering plain,

Almost to touch; then up again aloft,

Up with a sally and a flash of speed,

As if they scorned both resting-place and rest!

[peaceofheartt]

Yew-Trees

By William Wordsworth (1770 - 1850)

There is a Yew-tree, pride of Lorton Vale, Which to this day stands single, in the midst Of its own darkness, as it stood of yore: Not loathe to furnish weapons for the Bands Of Umfraville or Percy ere they marched To Scotland’s heaths; or those that crossed the sea And drew their sounding bows at Azincour, Perhaps at earlier Crecy, or Poictiers. Of vast circumference and gloom profound This solitary Tree! -a living thing Produced too slowly ever to decay; Of form and aspect too magnificent To be destroyed. But worthier still of note Are those fraternal Four of Borrowdale, Joined in one solemn and capacious grove; Huge trunks! -and each particular trunk a growth Of intertwisted fibres serpentine Up-coiling, and inveteratley convolved, – Nor uninformed with Fantasy, and looks That threaten the profane; -a pillared shade, Upon whose grassless floor of red-brown hue, By sheddings from the pining umbrage tinged Perennially -beneath whose sable roof Of boughs, as if for festal purpose decked With unrejoicing berries -ghostly Shapes May meet at noontide: Fear and trembling Hope, Silence and Foresight, Death the Skeleton And Time the Shadow; there to celebrate, As in a natural temple scattered o’er With altars undisturbed of mossy stone, United worship; or in mute repose To lie, and listen to the mountain flood Murmuring from Glaramara’s inmost caves.

[peaceofheartt]

A Night Piece

By William Wordsworth (1770 - 1850)

The sky is overcast

With a continuous cloud of texture close,

Heavy and wan, all whitened by the moon,

Which through that veil is indistinctly seen,

A dull contracted circle, yielding light

Chequering the ground, from rock, plant, tree, or tower.

At length a pleasant instantaneous gleam

Startles the pensive traveller while he treads

His lonesome path, with unobserving eye

Bent earthwards: he looks up -- the clouds are split

Asunder, -- and above his head he sees

The clear moon, and the glory of the heavens;

There in a black-blue vault she sails along,

Followed by multitudes of stars, that, small

And sharp and bright, along the dark abyss

Drive as she drives: -- how fast they wheel away,

Yet vanish not! -- the wind is in the tree,

But they are silent; -- still they roll along,

Immeasurably distant; and the vault,

Built round by those white clouds, enormous clouds,

Still deepens its unfathomable depth.

At length the vision closes; and the mind,

Not undisturbed by the delight it feels,

Which slowly settles into peaceful calm,

Is left to muse upon the solemn scene.

[peaceofheartt]

The Calm

By Thomas Moore (1779 - 1852)

How calm, how beautiful comes on

The stilly hour, when storms are gone;

When warring winds have died away,

The clouds, beneath the glancing ray,

Melt off, and leave the land and sea

Sleeping in bright tranquility,

Fresh as if day again were born,

Again upon the lap of Morn!

When the light blossoms, rudely torn

And scattered at the whirlwind's will,

Hang floating in the pure air still,

Filling it all with precious balm,

In gratitude for this sweet calm;

And every drop the thunder-showers

Have left upon the grass and flowers

Sparkles, as 'twere the lightning gem

Whose liquid flame is born of them;

When, 'stead of one unchanging breeze,

There blow a thousand gentle airs,

And each a different perfume bears, --

As if the loveliest plants and trees

Had vassal breezes of their own

To watch and wait on them alone,

And waft no other breath than theirs;

When the blue waters rise and fall,

In sleepy sunshine mantling all,

And e'en that swell the tempest leaves

Is like the full and silent heaves

Of lovers' hearts, when newly blest,

Too newly to be quite at rest.

[peaceofheartt]

Lambs At Play

By Robert Bloomfield (1766 - 1823)

Away they scour, impetuous, ardent, strong,

The green turf trembling as they bound along,

Adown the slope, then up the hillock climb,

Where every molehill is a bed of thyme;

There panting stop, yet scarcely can refrain, --

A bird, a leaf, will set them off again;

Or if a gale with strength unusual blow,

Scattering the wild briar roses into snow,

Their little limbs, increasing efforts try;

Like the torn flower the fair assemblage fly.

[peaceofheartt]

Evening

By Lord Byron (1788 - 1824)

Slow sinks, more lovely ere his race be run,

Along Morea's hills the setting sun;

Not, as in northern climes, obscurely bright,

But one unclouded blaze of living light!

O'er the hushed deep the yellow beam he throws,

Gilds the green wave, that trembles as it glows.

On old Aegina's rock, and Idra's isle,

The god of gladness sheds his parting smile,

O'er his own regions lingering, loves to shine,

Though there his altars are no more divine.

Descending fast, the mountain shadows kiss

Thy glorious gulf, unconquered Salamis!

Their azure arches through the long expanse

More deeply purpled meet his mellowing glance,

And tenderest tints, along their summits driven,

Mark his gay course, and own the hues of heaven;

Till, darkly shaded from the land and deep,

Behind his Delphian cliff he sinks to sleep.

On such an eve, his palest beam he cast,

When, Athens! Here thy Wisest looked his last.

How watched thy better sons his farewell ray,

That closed their murdered sage's latest day!

Not yet -- not yet -- Sol pauses on the hill --

The precious hour of parting lingers still;

But sad his light to agonizing eyes,

And dark the mountain's once delightful dyes:

Gloom o'er the lovely land he seemed to pour,

The land where Phoebus never frowned before;

But ere he sank below Cithaeron's head,

The cup of woe was quaffed -- the spirit fled;

The soul of him who scorned to fear or fly,

Who lived and died as none can live or die!

But lo! From high Hymettus to the plain,

The queen of night asserts her silent reign.

No murky vapour, herald of the storm,

Hides her fair face, nor girds her glowing form;

With cornice glimmering as the moonbeams play,

There the white column greets her grateful ray,

And, bright around with quivering beams beset,

Her emblem sparkles o'er the minaret:

The groves of olive scattered dark and wide,

Where meek Cephisus pours his scanty tide,

The cypress saddening by the sacred mosque,

The gleaming turret of the gay kiosk,

And, dun and sombre 'mid the holy calm,

Near Theseus' fane yon solitary palm,

All tinged with varied hues, arrest the eye --

And dull were his that passed them heedless by.

Again the Aegean, heard no more afar,

Lulls his chafed breast from elemental war;

Again his waves in milder tints unfold

Their long array of sapphire and gold,

Mixed with the shades of many a distant isle,

That frown -- where gentler ocean seems to smile.

Not now my theme -- why turn my thoughts to thee?

Oh! Who can look along thy native sea,

Nor dwell upon thy name, whate'er the tale,

So much its magic must o'er all prevail?

Who that beheld that sun upon thee set,

Fair Athens! Could thine evening face forget?

Not he whose heart nor time nor distance frees,

Spell-bound within the clustering Cyclades.

Nor seems this homage foreign to his strain,

-- His Corsair's isle was once thine own domain --

Would that with freedom it were thine again!

[peaceofheartt]

The Sea

By Robert Southey (1774 - 1843)

How beautiful beneath the bright blue sky

The billows heave! One glowing green expanse,

Save where along the bending line of shore

Such hue is thrown as when the peacock's neck

Assumes its proudest tint of amethyst

Embathed in emerald glory.

[peaceofheartt]

Evening

By William Cowper (1731 - 1800)

Come, Evening, once again, season of peace,

Return, sweet Evening, and continue long!

Methinks I see thee in the streaky west,

With matron step slow moving, while the night

Treads on thy sweeping train; one hand employed

In letting fall the curtain of repose

On bird and beast, the other charged for man

With sweet oblivion of the cares of day;

Not sumptuously adorned, nor needing aid,

Like homely-featured Night, of clustering gems:

A star or two just twinkling on thy brow

Suffices thee; save that the moon is thine

No less than hers: not worn indeed on high

With ostentatious pageantry, but set

With modest grandeur in thy purple zone,

Resplendent less, but of an ampler round.

Come, then, and thou shalt find thy votary calm,

Or make me so. Composure is thy gift:

And whether I devote thy gentle hours

To books, to music, or the poet's toil,

To weaving nets for bird-alluring fruit,

Or twining silken threads around ivory reels,

When they command whom man was born to please,

I slight thee not, but make thee welcome still.

[peaceofheartt]

The Ravine

By Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792 - 1822)

I remember

Two miles on this side of the fort, this road

Crosses a deep ravine; 'tis rough and narrow,

And winds with short turns down the precipice;

And in its depths there is a mighty rock,

Which has, from unimaginable years,

Sustained itself with terror and with toil

Over a gulf, and with the agony

With which it clings seems slowly coming down;

Even as a wretched soul, hour after hour,

Clings to the mass of life; yet, clinging, leans,

And, leaning, makes more dark the dread abyss

In which it fears to fall. Beneath this crag,

Huge as despair, as if in weariness

The melancholy mountain yawns. Below

You hear, but see not, the impetuous torrent

Raging among the caverns; and a bridge

Crosses the chasm; and high above these grow,

With intersecting trunks, from crag to crag,

Cedars, and yews, and pines, whose tangled hair

Is matted in one solid roof of shade

By the dark ivy's twine. At noonday here

'Tis twilight, and at sunset blackest night.

[peaceofheartt]

The Spring

By Thomas Carew (1589 - 1639)

Now that the winter's gone, the earth has lost

Her snow-white robes; and now no more the frost

Candies the grass, or casts an icy cream

Upon the silver lake or crystal stream.

But the warm sun thaws the benumbed earth,

And makes it tender; gives a second birth

To the dead swallows; wakes in hollow tree

The drowsy cuckoo and the humble bee.

Now do a choir of chirping minstrels bring

In triumph to the world the youthful spring:

The valleys, hills, and woods in rich array,

Welcome the coming of the longed-for May.

[peaceofheartt]

The Garden

by Samuel Rogers (1762 - 1855)

As through the garden's desert paths I rove,

What fond illusions swarm in every grove!

How oft, when purple evening tinged the west,

We watched the emmet to her grainy nest;

Welcomed the wild bee home on weary wing,

Laden with sweets, the choicest of the spring.

How oft inscribed, with Friendship's votive rhyme,

The bark now silvered by the touch of Time;

Soared in the swing, half pleased, and half afraid,

Thro' sister elms that waved their summer shade;

Or strewed with crumbs yon root-inwoven seat,

To lure the redbreast from his lone retreat.

Childhood's loved group revisits every scene, --

The tangled wood-walk and the tufted green.

Indulgent Memory wakes, and lo, they live!

Clothed with far softer hues than Light can give.

Thou first, best friend, that Heaven assigns

To soothe and sweeten all the cares we know;

Whose glad suggestions still each vain alarm,

When nature fades, and life forgets to charm;

Thee would be the Muse invoke! -- to thee belong

The sage's precept and the poet's song,

What softened views thy magic glass reveals,

When o'er the landscape Time's meek twilight steals!

As when in ocean sinks the orb of day,

Long on the wave reflected lustres play,

Thy tempered gleams of happiness resigned

Glance on the darkened mirror of the mind.

The school's lone porch, with reverend mosses grey,

Just tells the pensive pilgrim where it lay.

Mute is the bell that rung at peep of dawn,

Quickening my truant feet across the lawn;

Unheard the shout that rent the noontide air,

When the slow dial gave a pause to care.

Up springs at every step, to claim a tear,

Some little friendship formed and cherished here;

And not the lightest leaf but trembling teems

With golden visions and romantic dreams.

[peaceofheartt]

Night Over The Persian Gulf

By Thomas Moore (1779 - 1852)

'Tis moonlight over Oman's sea;

Her banks of pearl and palmy isles

Bask in the night-beam beauteously,

And her blue waters sleep in smiles.

'Tis moonlight in Harmozia's walls,

And through her Emir's porphyry halls,

Where, some hours since, was heard the swell

Of trumpet and the clash of zel,

Bidding the bright-eyed sun farewell; --

The peaceful sun, whom better suits

The music of the bulbul's nest,

Or the light touch of lovers' lutes,

To sing him to his golden rest!

All hushed -- there's not a breeze in motion;

The shore is silent as the ocean.

If zephyrs come, so light they come,

Nor leaf is stirred nor wave is driven; --

Nor wind-tower on the Emir's dome

Can hardly win a breath from heaven.

[peaceofheartt]

Evening

By Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772 - 1834)

But now the gentle dew-fall sends abroad

The fruit-like perfume of the golden furze:

The light has left the summit of the hill,

Though still a sunny gleam lies beautiful

Aslant the ivied beacon. Now farewell,

Farewell awhile, O soft and silent spot!

On the green sheep-track, up the healthy hill,

Homeward I wind my way; and lo! Recalled

From bodings that have well-nigh wearied me,

I find myself upon the brow, and pause

Startled! And after lonely sojourning

In such a quiet and surrounded nook,

This burst of prospect, here the shadowy main,

Dim tinted, there the mighty majesty

Of that huge amphitheatre of rich

And elmy fields, seems like society --

Conversing with the mind, and giving it

A livelier impulse and a dance of thought!