A Character
I marvel how Nature could ever find space For so many strange contrasts in one human face:
There's thought and no thought, and there's paleness and bloom And bustle and sluggishness, pleasure and gloom.
There's weakness, and strength both redundant and vain;
Such strength as, if ever affliction and pain Could pierce through a temper that's soft to disease,
Would be rational peace—a philosopher's ease.
There's indifference, alike when he fails or succeeds,
And attention full ten times as much as there needs;
Pride where there's no envy, there's so much of joy;
And mildness, and spirit both forward and coy.
There's freedom, and sometimes a diffident stare Of shame scarcely seeming to know that she's there,
There's virtue, the title it surely may claim,
Yet wants heaven knows what to be worthy the name.
This picture from nature may seem to depart,
Yet the Man would at once run away with your heart;
And I for five centuries right gladly would be Such an odd such a kind happy creature as he.
William Wordsworth
Other author posts
From The Cuckoo And The Nightingale
The God of Love—ah, benedicite How mighty and how great a Lord is he For he of low hearts can make high, of He can make low, and unto death bring nigh;
The Solitary Reaper
Behold her, single in the field, Yon solitary Highland Lass! Reaping and singing by herself; Stop here, or gently pass!
Simon Lee The Old Huntsman
With an incident in which he was concerned In the sweet shire of Cardigan, Not far from pleasant Ivor-hall, An old Man dwells, a little man,— 'Tis said he once was tall For five-and-thirty years he lived A running huntsman merry; And still th...
Lucy Gray [or Solitude]
Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray, And when I cross'd the Wild, I chanc'd to see at break of The solitary Child
