Universidade Federal da Paraba/CCHLADepartamento de Letras Estrangeiras ModernasEnglish Literature II Prof.a Genilda Azerdo 2015.1Anthology English Romantic Poetry

Poems by William Wordsworth

She Dwelt among the Untrodden WaysShe dwelt among the untrodden waysBeside the springs of Dove,A Maid whom there were none to praiseAnd very few to love:

A violet by a mossy stoneHalf hidden from the eye! Fair as a star, when only oneIs shining in the sky.

She lived unknown, and few could knowWhen Lucy ceased to be;But she is in her grave, and, oh,The difference to me!

MY HEART LEAPS UP WHEN I BEHOLD

1 My heart leaps up when I behold2 A rainbow in the sky:3 So was it when my life began;4 So is it now I am a man;5 So be it when I shall grow old,6 Or let me die!7 The Child is father of the Man;8 I could wish my days to be9 Bound each to each by natural piety.

We Are Seven

_____ A simple Child,That lightly draws its breath,And feels its life in every limb,What should it know of death?

I met a little cottage Girl:She was eight years old, she said;Her hair was thick with many a curlThat clustered round her head.

She had a rustic, woodland air,And she was wildly clad:Her eyes were fair, and very fair;- Her beauty made me glad.

"Sisters and brothers, little Maid,How many may you be?""How many? Seven in all," she said,And wondering looked at me.

"And where are they? I pray you tell."She answered, "Seven are we;And two of us at Conway dwell,And two are gone to sea.

"Two of us in the church-yard lie,My sister and my brother;And, in the church-yard cottage, IDwell near them with my mother."

"You say that two at Conway dwell,And two are gone to sea,Yet ye are seven! I pray you tell,Sweet Maid, how this may be."

Then did the little Maid reply,"Seven girls and boys are we;Two of us in the church-yard lie,Beneath the church-yard tree.

"You run about, my little Maid,Your limbs they are alive;If two are in the church-yard laid,Then ye are only five."

"Their graves are green, they may be seen,"The little Maid replied,"Twelve steps or more from my mother's door,And they are side by side.

"My stockings there I often knit,My kerchief there I hem;And there upon the ground I sit,And sing a song to them.

"And often after sun-set, Sir,When it is light and fair,I take my little porringer,And eat my supper there.

"The first that died was sister Jane;In bed she moaning lay,Till God released her of her pain;And then she went away.

"So in the church-yard she was laid;And, when the grass was dry,Together round her grave we played,My brother John and I.

"And when the ground was white with snow,And I could run and slide,My brother John was forced to go,And he lies by her side."

"How many are you, then," said I,If they two are in heaven?"Quick was the little Maid's reply,"O Master! we are seven."

"But they are dead; those two are dead!Their spirits are in heaven!"'T was throwing words away; for stillThe little Maid would have her will,And said, "Nay, we are seven!"

I WANDERED LONELY AS A CLOUD1 I wandered lonely as a cloud 2 That floats on high o'er vales and hills,3 When all at once I saw a crowd,4 A host, of golden daffodils;5 Beside the lake, beneath the trees,6 Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. 7 Continuous as the stars that shine8 And twinkle on the milky way,9 They stretched in never-ending line10 Along the margin of a bay:11 Ten thousand saw I at a glance,12 Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. 13 The waves beside them danced; but they14 Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:15 A poet could not but be gay,16 In such a jocund company:17 I gazed--and gazed--but little thought18 What wealth the show to me had brought: 19 For oft, when on my couch I lie20 In vacant or in pensive mood,21 They flash upon that inward eye22 Which is the bliss of solitude;23 And then my heart with pleasure fills,24 And dances with the daffodils.

The World is Too Much with Us (William Wordsworth)

1 The world is too much with us; late and soon,2 Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:3 Little we see in Nature that is ours;4 We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!5 This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;6 The winds that will be howling at all hours,7 And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;8 For this, for everything, we are out of tune;9 It moves us not. Great God! Id rather be10 A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;11 So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,12 Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;13 Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;14 Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed hornStrange fits of passion have I known (William Wordsworth, 1799)

Strange fits of passion have I known: And I will dare to tell, But in the Lover's ear alone, What once to me befell.

When she I loved looked every day Fresh as a rose in June, I to her cottage bent my way, Beneath an evening moon.

Upon the moon I fixed my eye, All over the wide lea; With quickening pace my horse drew nigh Those paths so dear to me.

And now we reached the orchard-plot; And, as we climbed the hill, The sinking moon to Lucy's cot Came near, and nearer still.

In one of those sweet dreams I slept, Kind Nature's gentlest boon! And all the while my eyes I kept On the descending moon.

My horse moved on; hoof after hoof He raised, and never stopped: When down behind the cottage roof, At once, the bright moon dropped.

What fond and wayward thoughts will slide Into a Lover's head! "O mercy!" to myself I cried, "If Lucy should be dead!"

Poems by William BlakeInfant JoyI have no nameI am but two days old.What shall I call thee?I happy am,Joy is my name.Sweet joy befall thee!Pretty joy!Sweet joy but two days old,Sweet joy I call thee;Thou dost smile.I sing the whileSweet joy befall thee.Infant SorrowMy mother groand, my father wept.Into the dangerous world I leapt,Helpless, naked, piping loudLike a fiend hid in a cloud.Struggling in my fathers handsStriving against my swadling bands:Bound and weary I thought bestTo sulk upon my mothers breast.

The sick rose

O, Rose, thou art sick.The invisible wormThat flies in the night,In the howling storm,

Has found out thy bedOf crimson joyAnd his dark, secret loveDoes thy life destroy.

Song How sweet I roam'd from field to fieldAnd tasted all the summer's pride,Till I the Prince of Love beheldWho in the sunny beams did glide!

He show'd me lilies for my hair,And blushing roses for my brow;He led me through his gardens fairWhere all his golden pleasures grow.

With sweet May dews my wings were wet,And Phoebus fir'd my vocal rage;He caught me in his silken net,And shut me in his golden cage.

He loves to sit and hear me sing,Then, laughing, sports and plays with me;Then stretches out my golden wing,And mocks my loss of liberty.

The Fly

Little FlyThy summers playMy thoughtless handHas brushd away.

Am not IA fly like thee?Or art not thouA man like me?

For I danceAnd drink & sing,Till some blind handShall brush my wing.

If thought is lifeAnd strength & breath,And the want Of thought is death;

Then am IA happy fly,If I live,Or if I die.

Nurse's Song (Innocence)

When voices of children are heard on the greenAnd laughing is heard on the hill,My heart is at rest within my breastAnd everything else is still

Then come home my children the sun is gone downAnd the dews of night ariseCome come leave off play, and let us awayTill the morning appears in the skies

No no let us play, for it is yet dayAnd we cannot go to sleepBesides in the sky, the little birds flyAnd the hills are all covered with sheep

Well well go & play till the light fades awayAnd then go home to bedThe little ones leaped & shouted & laugh'dAnd all the hills echoed

Nurse's Song (Experience)

When the voices of children are heard on the green And whisperings are in the dale,The days of my youth rise fresh in my mind,My face turns green and pale.

Then come home my children, the sun is gone downAnd the dews of night arise;

Your spring and your day are wasted in play,And your winter and night in disguise.

Amor in: Lira dos Vinte Anos, lvares de Azevedo

Amemos! quero de amorViver no teu corao!Sofrer e amar essa dorQue desmaia de paixo!Na tualma, em teus encantosE na tua palidezE nos teus ardentes prantosSuspirar de languidez!

Quero em teus lbios beberOs teus amores do cu!Quero em teu seio morrerNo enlevo do seio teu!Quero viver desperana!Quero tremer e sentir!Na tua cheirosa tranaQuero sonhar e dormir!

Vem, anjo, minha donzela,Minhalma, meu corao...Que noite! que noite bela!Como doce a virao!E entre os suspiros do vento,Da noite ao mole frescor,Quero viver um momento,Morrer contigo de amor!

Poems by Percy Bysshe Shelley

The Indian Girls Song [The Indian Serenade]

I arise from dreams of theeIn the first sleep of night The winds are breathing lowAnd the stars are burning bright.I arise from dreams of thee And a spirit in my feetHas borne me Who knows how?To thy chamber window, sweet!

The wandering airs they faintOn the dark silent stream The champak odours failLike sweet thoughts in a dream;The nightingales complaint It dies upon her heart As I must die on thineO beloved as thou art!

O lift me from the grass!I die, I faint, I fail!Let thy love in kisses rainOn my lips and eyelids pale.My cheek is cold and white, alas!My heart beats loud and fast.Oh press it close to thine againWhere it will break at last.

THE FLOWER THAT SMILES TODAY

The flower that smiles today Tomorrow dies;All that we wish to stay Tempts and then flies;What is this world's delight?Lightning, that mocks the night,Brief even as bright.--

Virtue, how frail it is!-- Friendship, how rare!--Love, how it sells poor bliss For proud despair!But these though soon they fall,Survive their joy, and allWhich ours we call.--

Whilst skies are blue and bright, Whilst flowers are gay,Whilst eyes that change ere night Make glad the day;Whilst yet the calm hours creep,Dream thou -- and from thy sleepThen wake to weep.

To [Music, When Soft Voices Die]

Music, when soft voices die,Vibrates in the memory.Odours, when sweet violets sicken,Live within the sense they quicken.

Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,Are heaped for the beloveds bed And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,Love itself shall slumber on

Poems by Byron

She walks in beauty

She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies;And all thats best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes:Thus mellowed to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less, Had half impaired the nameless graceWhich waves in every raven tress, Or softly lightens oer her face;Where thoughts serenely sweet express How pure, how dear, their dwelling place.

And on that cheek, and oer that brow, So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,The smiles that win, the tints that glow, But tell of days in goodness spent,A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent!

So Well Go No More A-Roving

So well go no more a-roving So late into the night,Though the heart be still as loving, And the moon be still as bright.

For the sword outwears its sheath, And the soul wears out the breast,And the heart must pause to breathe, And love itself have rest.

Though the night was made for loving, And the day returns too soon,Yet well go no more a-roving By the light of the moon.