The Artist and the Art.

Now that the snows must melt and herbs revive
and rainbow shows aloft its hidden gold,

palette, brush and paint must come alive
in new magnificence vying with the old.

Seeking the bold achievement where he will

with truths holy lamp, source of bright and deep,
spreading dark and light with brush and quill
colours in silence with unfettered sweep.

Spared by fire and blood and turning sands

from death, the memory of the brave and wise,
nor injured more by touch of meddling hands
yet glorious art the power of time defies.

And all forbidden seeds must shed their pods

or enslave whole nations on their native soil
weakness of the great, folly of the gods
must be avoided; purest pigment, holy oil.

A spot of golden sunshine fixed in space

or softly stealing into modest shade,
The drooping mind of absence can erase
names once heard and prayers no longer prayed.

And gallery's sumptuous doors spread wide at morn,

with heart and mind the charmed spectator spies
under soft cerulean sky an ear of corn,
by night bare floors see portraits of the skies.

( from a memorials of a tour in Italy ) 

Ramble at Evening.(from the Cuckoo at Laverna)

Although invisible as Echo's self

often I've heard the nightingale and thrush,

Far off and faint and melting into air,

Cooling throats, sweet dew from hawthorn bush.

From vale to hill, flower after flower has blown

blending within a common English grove,

Embellishing the ground that gave them birth,

savouring earth born joys, sampling her treasure trove.

By unsought means for gracious purposes,

where spring her richest blossoms did display,

and every shape of nature is sustained

strange and familiar, might beguile the day.

Divine affections as with beast and bird

so pure, so fraught with knowledge and delight,

Till dusk descending upon hill and vale

summons the moon, pale candle of the night.

Fear and Faith

A potent wand does sorrow wield,

repentance is a tender sprite,

But if by chance your faith should fail

regard the crescent moon so bright.

Whose voice can stop the nimble clouds

or eye can see the wind?

Which ear can hear the silent song,

whose touch has never sinned?

Whether among the winds we strive

that cuts along the hawthorn fence

in savage wildness, winter's ice,

We must rely on future tense.

The crab, the scorpion and the bull

along with scattered stars,

hidden behind mercury

the red haired face of mars.

Temptation lurks among all words

while white dust sleeps along the lane,

Darklings among the boughs and leaves

account for the crimson stain.

Paths of wickedness and woe,

the noise of danger in your ears,

Some ugly witchcraft might be about,

Perhaps the music of the spheres.

Yet man's heart is a holy place

among the lovely shades of things

Not given to sadness or to gloom,

regal as palaces and kings.

And nature still will find a way

to bring us back to God

by ferry of a flying horse,

no ghost more softly ever trod.

(from Wordsworth's Peter Bell)

My Place.

( from Wordsworth's 'poems on the naming of places')

Close to the spot where with my rod and line

angling beside the margin of the lake,

Sole-sitting by the shores of old romance

a bed of water in the woods did wake.

The spot was made by nature for herself,

this glade of water and this one green field,

And if a man should plant his cottage near

a cloistered place, of refuge, shade and shield.

In that perennial shade of unencumbered floor

a single beech tree grew and on the fork

a thrush's nest conspicuously built,

Sentry on a tranquil spot, a solitary stork.

From the remotest outskirts of the grove

a few sheep, stragglers from some mountain flock

sought protection from the nipping blast

in playgrounds of their youth, on footloose rock.

Full many an hour here did I lose,

Well worn the track, unwearied and alone,

Muttering the verses which I muttered first

on blooming heath, my couch and mine alone.

Shifting Seasons. (Wordsworth)

The voice of waters which winter had supplied

from all living things went circling,

From budding groves to steps of June,

From greening; herald of purpling.

The stream sent sallies of glad sound

that vied with song of linnet and thrush ,

Heard in the bosom of the birch,

Echoed in every bush.

The yew, the holly and the bright green thorn

send forth the hue of common pleasure,

Even the shepherd's dog made song,

Unlikely herald of summer leisure.

In the confusion of my heart ,

Alive to all and forgetting all,

Beast and bird, lamb and foal,

Splashing in nature's waterfall.

Still, spring impregnates summer

and summer delivers in Fall,

Winter buries all forbidden fruit,

Season, once more, lays out her stall.

{from 'To Joanna}

The Shepherd

There once was a shepherd, Michael was his name,
On the heights so lived he, till his eightieth year,
He had learned of the meaning of all winds,
Of hardship, skill or courage, joy or fear.

Amid the heart of many thousand mists,
Intense and frugal, apt for all affairs,
And watchful more than ordinary men
His neighbours, when he passed, blessed him with prayers.

The common air; hills, he had so often climbed,
With two brave sheep dogs tried in many a storm,
The pleasure which is there is in life itself,
Which like a book, preserves the memory of form.

And westward to the village near the lake
He dwelt at constant beck of wind and rain
An old man, stout of heart and strong of limb,
Life of sole purpose, the certainty of honourable gain.

(From Wordsworths ‘Michael’)

Moving On.

  (From Wordsworth’s ‘THE BROTHERS’)

Pencil in hand and book upon the knee

Upon the long stone seat beneath the eaves,

Expectations to the fickle winds

Such a confusion to his memory of leaves.

He to the solitary church yard turned

To that particular spot his family were laid

The thought of death sits easy on the man

And for my part, I have often prayed.

Upon the long stone seat beneath the eaves,

Expectations to the fickle winds

Such a confusion to his memory of leaves.

He to the solitary church yard turned

To that particular spot his family were laid

The thought of death sits easy on the man

And for my part, I have often prayed.

He had gone forth among the new dropped lambs,

There were butterflies to wheel about,

Strange alterations wrought on every side,

That he began to doubt

that you are heedless of the past,

here’s neither head nor foot-stone, plate of brass

we talk about the dead by our fire-sides

who many years ago this road did pass.

A child is born or christened, a web spun,

For accidents and changes such as these

In this our valley all of us have wished

For verdant hills with dwellings among trees.

The happy man will creep about the fields

Now there sir, is a thought that’s new to me’

No look and scribble, no scribble and look

Can trace the finger of mortality