The Tables Turned by William Wordsworth

 Up! up! my Friend, and quit your books; 

Or surely you'll grow double: 

Up! up! my Friend, and clear your looks; 

Why all this toil and trouble? 

The sun above the mountain's head, 

A freshening lustre mellow 

Through all the long green fields has spread, 

His first sweet evening yellow. 

Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife: 

Come, hear the woodland linnet, 

How sweet his music! on my life, 

There's more of wisdom in it. 

And hark! how blithe the throstle sings! 

He, too, is no mean preacher: 

Come forth into the light of things, 

Let Nature be your teacher. 

She has a world of ready wealth, 

Our minds and hearts to bless— 

Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health, 

Truth breathed by cheerfulness. 

One impulse from a vernal wood 

May teach you more of man, 

Of moral evil and of good, 

Than all the sages can. 

Sweet is the lore which Nature brings; 

Our meddling intellect 

Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things:— 

We murder to dissect. 

Enough of Science and of Art; 

Close up those barren leaves; 

Come forth, and bring with you a heart 

That watches and receives. 

Lines Written in Early Spring by William Wordsworth

 

I heard a thousand blended notes, 

While in a grove I sate reclined, 

In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts 

Bring sad thoughts to the mind. 

To her fair works did Nature link 

The human soul that through me ran; 

And much it grieved my heart to think 

What man has made of man. 

Through primrose tufts, in that green bower, 

The periwinkle trailed its wreaths; 

And ’tis my faith that every flower 

Enjoys the air it breathes. 

The birds around me hopped and played, 

Their thoughts I cannot measure:— 

But the least motion which they made 

It seemed a thrill of pleasure. 

The budding twigs spread out their fan, 

To catch the breezy air; 

And I must think, do all I can, 

That there was pleasure there. 

If this belief from heaven be sent, 

If such be Nature’s holy plan, 

Have I not reason to lament 

What man has made of man?

NOTE: From Lyrical Ballads, And a Few Other Poems. Wordsworth believed that nature is conscious. 

Jabberwocky by Lewis Carroll (Charles Dodgson)

 

’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves 

      Did gyre and gimble in the wabe: 

All mimsy were the borogoves, 

      And the mome raths outgrabe. 

“Beware the Jabberwock, my son! 

      The jaws that bite, the claws that catch! 

Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun 

      The frumious Bandersnatch!” 

He took his vorpal sword in hand; 

      Long time the manxome foe he sought— 

So rested he by the Tumtum tree 

      And stood awhile in thought. 

And, as in uffish thought he stood, 

      The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame, 

Came whiffling through the tulgey wood, 

      And burbled as it came! 

One, two! One, two! And through and through 

      The vorpal blade went snicker-snack! 

He left it dead, and with its head 

      He went galumphing back. 

“And hast thou slain the Jabberwock? 

      Come to my arms, my beamish boy! 

O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!” 

      He chortled in his joy. 

’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves 

      Did gyre and gimble in the wabe: 

All mimsy were the borogoves, 

      And the mome raths outgrabe.

Autumn by T.E. Hulme

A touch of cold in the Autumn night --

    I walked abroad, 

    And saw the ruddy moon lean over a hedge 

    Like a red-faced farmer. 

    I did not stop to speak, but nodded, 

    And round about were the wistful stars 

    With white faces like town children.

Study of Loneliness by Czeslaw Milosz

A guardian of long-distance conduits in the desert?

A one-man crew of a fortress in the sand?

Whoever he was.  At dawn he saw furrowed mountains

The color of ashes, above the melting darkness,

Saturated with violet, breaking into fluid rouge,

Till they stood, immense, in the orange light.

Day after day.  And, before he notices, year after year.

For whom, he thought, that splendor?  For me alone?

Yet it will be here long after I perish.

What is it in the eye of a lizard?  Or when seen by a migrant bird?

If I am all mankind, are they themselves without me?

And he knew there was no use crying out, for none of them would save him. 

A Song on the End of the World

BY CZESLAW MILOSZ

TRANSLATED BY ANTHONY MILOSZ

On the day the world ends

A bee circles a clover,

fisherman mends a glimmering net.

Happy porpoises jump in the sea,

By the rainspout young sparrows are playing

And the snake is gold-skinned as it should always be.

         

On the day the world ends

Women walk through the fields under their umbrellas,

A drunkard grows sleepy at the edge of a lawn,

Vegetable peddlers shout in the street

And a yellow-sailed boat comes nearer the island,

The voice of a violin lasts in the air

And leads into a starry night.

And those who expected lightning and thunder

Are disappointed.

And those who expected signs and archangels’ trumps

Do not believe it is happening now.

As long as the sun and the moon are above,

As long as the bumblebee visits a rose,

As long as rosy infants are born

No one believes it is happening now.

Only a white-haired old man, who would be a prophet

Yet is not a prophet, for he’s much too busy,

Repeats while he binds his tomatoes:

There will be no other end of the world,

There will be no other end of the world.

Warsaw, 1944

Lewd Descending a Staircase by Melissa Hintz

 

 

Does being here make you feel like you’re in an Italian porn film?

 

                                                                 I have never been asked this question before.

Much less by a stranger

at a writers’ workshop

on a bucolic college campus

walking down the sweeping marble staircase

to the basement Rathskellar for open mic.

 

Truth to tell, I would not know the difference

 between an Italian porn film and one from, say, Australia,

although perhaps the latter might have more koalas and kangaroos.

 

I am stumped. 

Unlike my halcyon college days, forty years ago, 

when I had a ready answer to do you believe in free love?

and I’d toss off it's worth what it costs, 

I ponder the question.

 

What is it that evokes this image for you?

Do you see cleavage in the verdant rolling hills?

Do you see masculine celebration

in the white columns that adorn every red-brick building?

Or the lampposts—

sturdy ten-foot black poles topped with white oval globes?

 

White wicker rockers on long covered porches 

might work for a kiss, but hardly a tryst.

 

Venetian blinds everywhere here, not Venetian blondes.

No minx in minks

nor naked nubile nymphs 

grace this campus,

though the founding father’s statue stands erect—

stern, whiskered, in top hat and great coat.

Hardly studly.

 

Somehow Signor, 

I do not see your role in this film,

with your plaid shirt, slight paunch, and scruffy beard.

Your sandaled feet would not sweep a maiden off hers, even if you shed the socks.

 

We have reached the bottom step.

Italian porn film?

I think not.

Perhaps, 

though, 

                                                                                     Goodbye Mr. Chips.