I'm looking at the starlit sky, I'm looking at the timeless heavenly plough land, Along which the Father sows the seed of eternal light. I'm looking at the falling star, Mercifully weaving the magic light Above the lonely dreamer on his path of dreams - Let us hurry, not for our sake, not for lost dreams, But for the future - I'm looking at the drop of rain on the wild rose's petal Early in the morning, How it trembles in its purity and nakedness, Like an angelic clear tear on the face of an abandoned woman; I'm looking at the rose in early bloom Waking and offering itself to the brand new day Like a woman to her beloved - Once you shall return and wipe away the tears We kissed and smelled under the Northern Star's light together - I am humbly looking at the sun as if it was a heavenly blacksmith, Welding harmony within human souls. I am looking at the centennial oak, As if it was an eternally young pharmacist, Offering its healthy medicine for free. I'm looking at the tree's straight posture, Drowning its young branches In the embrace of the sun's golden light, While the wind is brotherly fondling its wrinkled face, Whispering on about its thousand years of loneliness and loving - Don't be afraid to fall in love, love is the seed of new life - I'm looking at the man who doesn't hear Nor understand what nature is trying to tell him.
Four Seasons fill the measure of the year; There are four seasons in the mind of man: He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clear Takes in all beauty with an easy span: He has his Summer, when luxuriously Spring's honied cud of youthful thought he loves To ruminate, and by such dreaming high Is nearest unto heaven: quiet coves His soul has in its Autumn, when his wings He furleth close; contented so to look On mists in idleness—to let fair things Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook. He has his Winter too of pale misfeature, Or else he would forego his mortal nature.
I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky, And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by, And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking, And a gray mist on the sea's face, and a gray dawn breaking.
I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied; And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying, And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.
I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life, To the gull's way and the whale's way, where the wind's like a whetted knife; And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover, And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.
I Wandered Lonely As A Cloud 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 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.
