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I have no name I wandered lonely as a cloud I met a traveller from an antique land,
I am but two days old.— That floats on high o'er vales and hills, Who said—“Two vast and trunkless legs of
What shall I call thee? When all at once I saw a crowd, stone
I happy am A host, of golden daffodils; Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the
Joy is my name,— Beside the lake, beneath the trees, sand,
Sweet joy befall thee! Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose
frown,
Pretty joy! Continuous as the stars that shine And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold
Sweet joy but two days old, And twinkle on the milky way, command,
Sweet joy I call thee; They stretched in never-ending line Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Thou dost smile. Along the margin of a bay: Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless
I sing the while Ten thousand saw I at a glance, things,
Sweet joy befall thee. Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. The hand that mocked them, and the heart
that fed;
Infant Sorrow The waves beside them danced; but they And on the pedestal, these words appear:
William Blake Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings;
A poet could not but be gay, Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!
My mother groand! my father wept. In such a jocund company: Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Into the dangerous world I leapt: I gazed—and gazed—but little thought Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare
Helpless, naked, piping loud; What wealth the show to me had brought: The lone and level sands stretch far away.”
Like a fiend hid in a cloud.
For oft, when on my couch I lie
Struggling in my fathers hands: In vacant or in pensive mood,
Striving against my swaddling bands: They flash upon that inward eye
Bound and weary I thought best Which is the bliss of solitude;
To sulk upon my mothers breast. And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
La Belle Dame sans Merci
John Keats
O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, She found me roots of relish sweet,
Alone and palely loitering? And honey wild, and manna-dew,
The sedge has withered from the lake, And sure in language strange she said—
And no birds sing. ‘I love thee true’.
O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, She took me to her Elfin grot,
So haggard and so woe-begone? And there she wept and sighed full sore,
The squirrel’s granary is full, And there I shut her wild wild eyes
And the harvest’s done. With kisses four.