WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

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 to-day ?

Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,

That has been, and may be again ?

Whatever 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.

Terfect Woman

SHE was a phantom of delight When first she gleam'd upon my sight; A lovely apparition, sent To be a moment's ornament; Her eyes as stars of twilight fair ; Like twilight's, too, her dusky hair; But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful dawn ; A dancing shape, an image gay, To haunt, to startle, and waylay.

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