POETRY

Poetry - amongst the most wonderful expressions of human thought has always interested me. At times, I wonder what could be the inspiring factor, the moment of revelation at which a poet comes up with the perfect lines. 'Brevity is the soul of wit' they say, and how true it is when it comes to poetry. Every word measured and weighed, put in the right place with the right reason and rhyme, in order to convey that one thought, that one idea that triggered the whole chain reaction in the first place.

Some of my favourite poems are:

The Cloud - Percy Bysshe Shelley

Ode On Solitude - Alexander Pope

The Daffodils - William Wordsworth 

The Solitary Reaper - William Wordsworth

The Cloud - Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792- 1822)

I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,
From the seas and the streams;
I bear light shade for the leaves when laid
In their noonday dreams.
From my wings are shaken the dews that waken
The sweet buds everyone,
When rocked to rest on their mother's breast,
As she dances about the sun.
I wield the flail of the lashing hail,
And whiten the green plains under.
And then again I dissolve it in rain,
And laugh as I pass in thunder.

I sift the snow on the mountains below,
And their great pines groan aghast,
And all the night 'tis my pillow white,
While I sleep in the arms of the blast.
Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers,
Lightening my pilot, sits,
In a cavern under is fettered the thunder,
It struggles and howls at fits;
Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion 
This pilot is guiding me,
Lured by the love of the genii that move
In the depths of purple sea;
Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills,
Over the lakes and the plains,
Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream,
The spirit he loves remains;
And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile,
Whilst he is dissolving in rains.

The sanguine sunrise with his meteor eyes,
And his burning plumes outspread,
Leaps on the back of my sailing rack,
When the morning star shines dead,
As on the jag of the mountain crag,
Which an earthquake rocks and swings,
An eagle alit one moment may sit
In the light of its golden wings.
And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath,
Its ardours of rest and of love
And the crimson pall of eve may fall
From the depth of heaven above,
With wings folded I rest, on mine airy nest,
As still as a brooding dove.

That orbe'd maiden with white fire laden, 
Whom mortals call the moon,
Glides glimmering o'er my fleece like floor,
By the midnight breezes strewn:
And wherever the beat of her unseen feet,
Which only the angels hear,
May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof,
The stars peep behind her and peer ;
And I laugh to see them whirl and flee,
Like a swarm of golden bees,
When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent,
Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas,
Like strips of the sky fallen through me on a high,
Are each paved with a moon and these.

I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone,
And moon's with a girdle of pearl;
The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim,
When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl.
From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape,
Over a torrent sea,
Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof,
The mountains it's columns be.
The triumphal arch through which I march
With hurricane, fire and snow,
When the powers of air are chained to my chair,
Is the million coloured bow;
The sphere-fire above it's soft colours wove,
While the moist earth was laughing below.

I am the daughter of earth and water
And the nursling of the sky;
I rise through the pores of oceans and shores;
I change but I cannot die.
For after the rain when with never a stain
The pavilion of heaven is bare,
And the winds and sunbeams, with their convex gleams,
Build up the blue dome of air,
I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,
And out of the cavern of rain,
Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb,
I arise and unbuild it again.

Ode On solitude - Alexander Pope (1688 – 1744) 


Happy the man whose wish and care 
A few paternal acres bound,
Content to breathe his native air,
In his own ground.

Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,
Whose flocks supply him with attire,
Whose trees in summer yield him shade,
In winter fire.

Blest, who can unconcern’dly find
Hours, days and years slide soft away,
In health of body, peace of mind,
Quiet by day,

Sound sleep by night; study and ease,
Together mixt; sweet recreation;
And innocence, which most does please
With meditation.

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown,
Thus unlamented let me die
Steal from the world, and not a stone
Tell where I lie.

The Daffodils - William Wordsworth (1770 - 1850) 

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.

The Solitary Reaper - William Wordsworth(1770-1850)

Behold her, single in the field
Yon solitary Highland lass !
Reaping and singing by herself
Stop here, or gently pass !
Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain ;
O listen ! for the vale profound 
Is overflowing with the sound

No nightingale did ever chant
More welcome notes to weary bands
Of travellers in some shady haunt,
Among Arabian sands:
A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard
In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides

Will no one tell me what she sings ? -
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old unhappy far off things,
And battles long ago :
Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of today ?
Some natural sorrow, loss or pain,
That has been, and may be again ?

Whate'er the theme the maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending ;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o'er the sickle bending;-
I listened, motionless and still ;
And, as I mounted up the hill
The music in my heart I bore
Long after it was heard no more.