Expostulation and Reply after Wordsworth
EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY AFTER WORDSWORTH
'Why, Rachel, on this online site,
thus for the length of five full years,
why, Rachel, archive, when your light
and dreams deserve three cheers?
Where is your Ph.D. well earned
now being well formed body, mind?
Down! downstream paddle, channel churned,
to Paris, Sorbonne find.
You look round on your Nottingham,
while reading Reading is too small,
while Oxenforde and Bridge on Cam,
slight fame may offer if at all! '
'One day near Sherwood Forest green,
saw sweet life vanished with the deer,
Good Robin's phantom moonlit seen,
one midnight did appear.
The inner eye beyond the sea
must list to voice for choice few hear;
our astral bodies feel they be,
blown to a fresh career.
More heed! Deem dreams of unseen Powers
impressed upon our minds may show
the way to active growth, joy's flowers
spurn passive wait, must grow..
The sober tenor of old ways,
their universal hustle, bustle,
seems too self-centered, time peels days
fresh challenge seek, mind muscle.
Ask no longer why, alone,
through contest answer's sought,
but act, abandon old grey stone,
spend time in play, ball caught...'
24 January 2010
Parody William Wordsworth 1770_1850 Expostulation and Reply
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EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY
'Why, William, on that old grey stone,
Thus for the length of half a day,
Why, William, sit you thus alone,
And dream your time away?
'Where are your books? —that light bequeathed
To Beings else forlorn and blind!
Up! up! and drink the spirit breathed
From dead men to their kind.
'You look round on your Mother Earth,
As if she for no purpose bore you;
As if you were her first-born birth,
And none had lived before you! '
One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake,
When life was sweet, I knew not why,
To me my good friend Matthew spake,
And thus I made reply:
'The eye—it cannot choose but see;
We cannot bid the ear be still;
Our bodies feel, where'er they be,
Against or with our will.
'Nor less I deem that there are Powers
Which of themselves our minds impress;
That we can feed this mind of ours
In a wise passiveness.
'Think you, 'mid all this mighty sum
Of things for ever speaking,
That nothing of itself will come,
But we must still be seeking?
'—Then ask not wherefore, here, alone,
Conversing as I may,
I sit upon this old grey stone,
And dream my time away, '
William Wordsworth 1770_1850
Expostulation and Reply after Wordsworth poem © Jonathan Robin
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Related quotes
Expostulation and Reply
"Why, William, on that old grey stone,
Thus for the length of half a day,
Why, William, sit you thus alone,
And dream your time away?
"Where are your books?--that light bequeathed
To Beings else forlorn and blind!
Up! up! and drink the spirit breathed
From dead men to their kind.
"You look round on your Mother Earth,
As if she for no purpose bore you;
As if you were her first-born birth,
And none had lived before you!"
One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake,
When life was sweet, I knew not why,
To me my good friend Matthew spake,
And thus I made reply:
"The eye--it cannot choose but see;
We cannot bid the ear be still;
Our bodies feel, where'er they be,
Against or with our will.
"Nor less I deem that there are Powers
Which of themselves our minds impress;
That we can feed this mind of ours
In a wise passiveness.
"Think you, 'mid all this mighty sum
Of things for ever speaking,
That nothing of itself will come,
But we must still be seeking?
"--Then ask not wherefore, here, alone,
Conversing as I may,
I sit upon this old grey stone,
And dream my time away,"
poem by William Wordsworth
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Time Of No Reply
Summer was gone and the heat died down
And autumn reached for her golden crown
I looked behind as I heard a sigh
But this was the time of no reply.
The sun went down and the crowd went home
I was left by the roadside all alone
I turned to speak as they went by
But this was the time of no reply.
The time of no reply is calling me to stay
There is no hello and no goodbye
To leave there is no way.
The trees on the hill had nothing to say
They would keep their dreams till another day
So they stood and thought and wondered why
For this was the time of no reply.
Time goes by from year to year
And no one asks why I am standing here
But I have my answer as I look to the sky
This is the time of no reply.
The time of no reply is calling me to stay
There's no hello and no goodbye
To leave there is no way.
song performed by by Nick Drake
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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No Reply At All
Talk to me, you never talk to me.
Ooh, it seems that I can speak.
But I can hear my voice shouting out.
But theres no reply at all.
Look at me, you never look at me,
Ooh, Ive been sitting, staring, seems so long.
But youre looking through me
Like I wasnt here at all.
No reply, theres no reply at all.
Dance with me, you never dance with me.
Ooh, it seems that I can move,
Im close to you, close as I can get.
Yet theres no reply at all,
Theres no reply at all.
I get the feeling youre tryin to tell me,
Is there something that I should know?
What excuse are you tryin to sell me?
Should I be reading stop or go, I dont know.
Be with me, seems youre never here with me,
Ooh, Ive been trying to get over there.
Ah, but its out of my reach.
And theres no reply at all.
Theres no reply at all.
I get the feeling youre trying to tell me;
Is there something that I should know?
What excuse are you trying to sell me?
Should I be reading stop or go, I dont know.
Maybe deep down inside,
Im trying for no one else but me.
Too stubborn to say, the buck stops here.
Its not the one youre looking for.
But, maybe deep down inside,
Im lying to no one else but me.
Oh but my back is up.
Im on my guard - with all the exits sealed.
Listen to me, you never listen to me,
Ooh, and it seems theres no way out,
Ive been trying, but we cannot connect,
And theres no reply at all,
Theres no reply at all,
Theres no reply at all,
No reply at all.
Is anybody listening - oh oh,
No reply at all...
song performed by by Genesis
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Mark The Concentrated Hazels That Enclose
MARK the concentred hazels that enclose
Yon old grey Stone, protected from the ray
Of noontide suns:--and even the beams that play
And glance, while wantonly the rough wind blows,
Are seldom free to touch the moss that grows
Upon that roof, amid embowering gloom,
The very image framing of a Tomb,
In which some ancient Chieftain finds repose
Among the lonely mountains.--Live, ye trees!
And thou, grey Stone, the pensive likeness keep
Of a dark chamber where the Mighty sleep:
For more than Fancy to the influence bends
When solitary Nature condescends
To mimic Time's forlorn humanities.
poem by William Wordsworth
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The Lake Poets
You have heard of William Wordsworth he was bard of Cockermouth
And he truly was a great poet if that ever was in doubt
And with Southey and With Coleridge they became known as the lake poets
And they made the Lake District famous and some famous poems they wrote.
Robert Southey was a fine poet he was slave to poetry
And he was for awhile Poet Laureate proves the great poet he must be
And though he is not well known as Coleridge and Wordsworth's is a greater name
He tends to be under rated and deserve a better fame.
And as for Samuel Taylor Coleridge a name verse critics celebrate
His works were born of genius a poetic all time great
The Rhyme Of The Ancient Mariner his masterpiece and some say
Is even greater than the famous elegy of Gray
And as for himself Will Wordsworth his fame seem to grow and grow
He has fifty times as many readers nowadays as he had one hundred years ago
When one talks of poets and poetry Wordsworth's name can't be left out
A testimony to the greatness of the Bard of Cockermouth.
Coleridge, Southey and Wordsworth geniuses all three
Their names inscribed in glory and poetic history
They lived in the Lake District that beautiful English country side
And due to the fame of these men the Lake District is known World wide.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Peace! What Do Tears Avail?
PEACE! what do tears avail?
She lies all dumb and pale,
And from her eye
The spirit of lovely life is fading,
And she must die!
Why looks the lover wroth? the friend upbraiding?
Reply, reply!
Hath she not dwelt too long
’Midst pain, and grief, and wrong?
Then, why not die?
Why suffer again her doom of sorrow,
And hopeless lie?
Why nurse the trembling dream until to-morrow?
Reply, reply!
Death! Take her to thine arms,
In all her stainless charms,
And with her fly
To heavenly haunts, where, clad in brightness,
The Angels lie.
Wilt bear her there, O Death! in all her whiteness?
Reply, reply!
poem by Barry Cornwall
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Question
I don't have the answer
So why ask me, why?
Why do you ask me a question
When there is no reply?
As though the answer was this?
Did you know all along?
That so much space
Is weighed down in white silence
Who told you these things?
These imagined replies?
To the unanswered question
The question why?
There is no reply
But bad weather
Rough roads
There is no reply
Leave the rain alone
There is no reply
No reply
No answer to why
Leave the question alone
No face in the sky
No key to the door
No there is nothing, but nothing
So leave nothing alone
And turn round and go home
Watch the sea from your window
The waves rise and fall
Nothing but madness
And nothing at all! !
The moon's silver crescent
No time to recall
What is left
What is deaf
What is blind
To ritual?
To sign?
There's no pattern no season
No face in the wall
No reason too reasonable
To make no sense at all!
There is no reply
To pain
Love lost
To prayer
Why ask me these questions?
When there's no answer there?
yvette m smith july 09
poem by Yvette Smith
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The Two April Mornings
We walked along, while bright and red
Uprose the morning sun;
And Matthew stopped, he looked, and said,
'The will of God be done!'
A village schoolmaster was he,
With hair of glittering grey;
As blithe a man as yon could see
On a spring holiday.
And on that morning, through the grass,
And by the steaming rills,
We travelled merrily, to pass
A day among the hills.
'Our work,' said I, 'was well begun,
Then, from thy breast what thought,
Beneath so beautiful a sun,
So sad a sigh has brought?'
A second time did Matthew stop;
And fixing still his eye
Upon the eastern mountain-top,
To me he made reply:
'Yon cloud with that long purple cleft
Brings fresh into my mind
A day like this which I have left
Full thirty years behind.
'And just above yon slope of corn
Such colours, and no other,
Were in the sky, that April morn,
Of this the very brother.
'With rod and line I sued the sport
Which that sweet season gave,
And, to the church-yard come, stopped short
Beside my daughter's grave.
'Nine summers had she scarcely seen,
The pride of all the vale;
And then she sang;--she would have been
A very nightingale.
'Six feet in earth my Emma lay;
And yet I loved her more,
For so it seemed, than till that day
I e'er had loved before.
'And, turning from her grave, I met,
Beside the church-yard yew,
A blooming Girl, whose hair was wet
With points of morning dew.
'A basket on her head she bare;
Her brow was smooth and white:
To see a child so very fair,
It was a pure delight!
'No fountain from its rocky cave
E'er tripped with foot so free;
She seemed as happy as a wave
That dances on the sea.
'There came from me a sigh of pain
Which I could ill confine;
I looked at her, and looked again:
And did not wish her mine!'
Matthew is in his grave, yet now,
Methinks, I see him stand,
As at that moment, with a bough
Of wilding in his hand.
poem by William Wordsworth
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Mother; it was all a white lie
How do I look? ’ says mother just before she goes out
I reply ‘wow amazing’ mother smiles
But if only she knew it was a white lie
I would hurt her deep inside
Mother says ‘which dress looks better’
I chose red, although I didn’t like neither
Mother reply’s ‘I’m glad you like it ‘, I reply ‘like it? I love it! ’ Yes I lied I genuinely disliked it!
Mother giggles but what she doesn’t realise it’s apart of my game just not as obvious as a riddle.
Mother is on a diet and works so hard to stick to it
Mother asks me ‘have I reduced weight a little bit? ’
I reply ‘a little bit? ’ you’ve lost so much that you’re starting to look like a stick!
Mother giggles and cuddles me; see this is why I lie because I make her feel so valuable and happy!
When mother was pregnant she looked big as ever! Mother asks’ ‘do I look big? ’ I reply look big? Never! Yes I lied to make her feel better!
I wanted her to feel cool about herself just like the breeze in the Lebanese weather
Although she was awfully big, I made her feel light as a feather!
Father is home late; mother is worried, she asks me if I think he’s ok
I reply ‘of course he is’ she smiles and gives me a kiss
Although I was also afraid and wanted to ask mother the same
I kept her calm by putting on a brave face
Mother says ‘I have a surprise for you in the boot’
I opened it and bless mother; she had bought me new shoes,
Mother says ‘like the shoes? ’ I reply ‘of course I do’ but if only she knew,
I would hurt her in the count of two!
poem by Anna Fawaz
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The Table Turned
Up! up! my Friend, and quit your books;
Or surely you'll grow double:
Up! up! my Friend, and clear your looks;
Why all this toil and trouble?
The sun, above the mountain's head,
A freshening lustre mellow
Through all the long green fields has spread,
His first sweet evening yellow.
Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife:
Come, hear the woodland linnet,
How sweet his music! on my life,
There's more of wisdom in it.
And hark! how blithe the throstle sings!
He, too, is no mean preacher:
Come forth into the light of things,
Let Nature be your teacher.
She has a world of ready wealth,
Our minds and hearts to bless--
Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health,
Truth breathed by cheerfulness.
One impulse from a vernal wood
May teach you more of man,
Of moral evil and of good,
Than all the sages can.
Sweet is the lore which Nature brings;
Our meddling intellect
Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things:--
We murder to dissect.
Enough of Science and of Art;
Close up those barren leaves;
Come forth, and bring with you a heart
That watches and receives.
poem by William Wordsworth
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I am o.k. you are o.k.
‘I lost my pen’
‘Don’t worry, I shall get you one’
A child like question
And an expected parental reply.
I am o.k., you are o.k.
‘I lost my pen’
‘I know you will do only that’
Parent reply belied the question.
I am o.k. You are not o.k.
‘I lost my pen’
‘You can borrow from me’
A child-like question.
An adult like answer.
I am o.k. You are o.k.
‘Is the bus late?
‘Which bus comes in time?
An adult seeking an adult
But received a parent reply.
I am o.k. You are not.
‘Is the bus late? ’
‘Yes, heard only ten minutes’
Both responded as adults.
I am o.k. You are o.k.
‘Let us play hide and seek’
‘Yes, let me hide first’
A child sought from a child
And received it.
I am o.k. You are o.k.
‘Let us play hide and seek’
‘No, this is not the time’
The reply is parental
And belied the question.
I am o.k. You are not.
‘Let us play hide and seek’
‘Yes. Then we should read’
A child and an adult reaction
I am o.k. You are o.k.
‘You should not smoke’
‘Yes. I shall cut it’
A parental question.
An adult reply.
I am o.k. You are o.k.
‘You should not smoke’
‘First, you cut your chewing’
A parental question
Seeking a child answer
But was belied.
I am o.k. You are not.
‘She should be taught a lesson’
‘ Yes, otherwise she will worsen’
A parent seeking a parent and got.
I am o.k. You are o.k.
‘I love you.’
‘I can’t forget you.’
Both are adult,
Expecting and receiving
As adults. I and you are o.k.
‘I love you’
‘Shh.. Others may watch”
A child’s reply to a child
Both are o.k.
‘I love you’
‘Bitch! Go to hell; I’ll report’
A parental reply, instead.
I am o.k. You are not.
‘I love you.’
‘I think you misunderstood.’
Both behaved as adults.
I am o.k. You are o.k.
You be the way you are expected.
You are then o.k. to others.
When others fail to be the way
You expected, you reason for it.
Others will be o.k. to you.
Then where is the individuality?
27.01.2000, Kottayam
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Anecdote For Fathers
I HAVE a boy of five years old;
His face is fair and fresh to see;
His limbs are cast in beautyÕs mold
And dearly he loves me.
One morn we strolled on our dry walk,
Or quiet home all full in view,
And held such intermitted talk
As we are wont to do.
My thoughts on former pleasures ran;
I thought of Kilve's delightful shore,
Our pleasant home when spring began,
A long, long year before.
A day it was when I could bear
Some fond regrets to entertain;
With so much happiness to spare,
I could not feel a pain.
The green earth echoed to the feet
Of lambs that bounded through the glade,
From shade to sunshine, and as fleet
From sunshine back to shade.
Birds warbled round me---and each trace
Of inward sadness had its charm;
Kilve, thought I, was a favoured place,
And so is Liswyn farm.
My boy beside me tripped, so slim
And graceful in his rustic dress!
And, as we talked, I questioned him,
In very idleness.
'Now tell me, had you rather be,'
I said. and took him by the arm,
'On Kilve's smooth shore, by the green sea,
Or here at Liswyn farm?'
In careless mood he looked at me,
While still I held him by the arm,
And said, 'At Kilve I'd rather be
Than here at Liswyn farm.'
'Now, little Edward, say why so:
My little Edward, tell me why.'---
'I cannot tell, I do not know.'---
'Why, this is strange,' said I;
'For, here are woods, hills smooth and warm:
There surely must one reason be
Why you would change sweet Liswyn farm
For Kilve by the green sea.'
At this, my boy hung down his head,
He blushed with shame, nor made reply;
And three times to the child I said,
'Why, :Edward, tell me why?'
His head he raised---there was in sight,
It caught his eye, he saw it plain---
Upon the house-top, glittering bright,
A broad and gilded vane.
Then did the boy his tongue unlock,
And eased his mind with this reply:
'At Kilve there was no weather-cock;
And that's the reaon why.'
O dearest, dearest boy! my heart
For better lore would seldom yearn,
Could I but teach the hundredth part
Of what from thee I learn.
poem by William Wordsworth
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Ven Vow
Even if one makes me to bleed
Like the blade of dangerous deed,
My belief is just laconic luck.
Sure, I'll reply with loving-kindness.
Even if one gives me big dig
With the lips of terrible trick,
My spirit is just innocent ism.
Sure, I'll reply with compassion.
Even if one boasts me to sizzle
Like the goad of beating cruel,
My moral is just excellent ecstasy.
Sure, I'll reply with prosperity.
Only if one edicts evils to grow
With dander-devils of highest score,
My soul will ignore that goon-guy.
Sure, I'll reply with equanimity mind.
poem by Aung Si Myanmar
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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 curl
That 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, I
Dwell 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 boys and girls 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 sunset, 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!"
'Twas throwing words away; for still
The little Maid would have her will,
And said, "Nay, we are seven!"
poem by William Wordsworth
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The Hearth-Stone
The leaves are sick and jaundiced, they
Drift down the air;
December's sky is sodden grey,
Dark with despair;
A bleary dawn will light anon
A world of care.
My name is cut into a stone,
No care have I;
The letters drool, as I alone
Forgotten lie:
With weed my grave is overgrown,
None cometh nigh.
A hundred hollow years will speed
As I decay;
And I'll be comrade to the weed,
Kin to the clay;
Until some hind in homing-need
Will pass my way.
Until some lover seeking hearth
With joy will see
My nameless stone sunk in the earth
And it will be
The ruddy birth of childish mirth,
And elder glee.
And none will dream it bore my name
Decades ago;
A scribbling fool of little fame,
Who loved life so . . .
Well, flesh is grass and Time must pass,--
Heigh ho! Heigh ho!
poem by Robert William Service
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A Daughter's Prayer
'Dear Lord, though my Mommy does not speak of such,
The man who lives with me is not my Daddy;
He has been with me for about three years, I know this much.
But, I deserve to know my Father-and this is not caddy!
Please allow that he may again be able to see
Both the Daughter I have become, and shall always be.
I feel more forlorn each day, with the void of his absence-
I want very much to be privy again to his pleasance! '
It remains to be seen how the Lord shall answer
What is surely the heart-felt cry of a lonely child;
How might the Lord render reply to such a cancer! ?
How may He bring back one who has so defiled
His Very Name, as any who sees to continue such separation-
That would seek to further such a grievous devastation! ? !
The Lord must reckon with one of a wicked kind:
He must now and evermore cause remind,
The most important concern is the author of the 'letter'-
Until she no longer feels this void, naught shall ever be better!
As has always been the Lord's Modus Operandi-
In His own Way and Time, shall come reply;
Meanwhile, until an answer comes, as satisfaction,
The little lady shall repeat this prayer, with faithful repititon!
-Maurice Harris,17 August 2010
poem by Maurice Harris
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She dwelt among the untrodden ways
She dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dove,
Maid whom there were none to praise
And very few to love:
A violet by a mossy stone
Half hidden from the eye!
---Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky.
She lived unknown, and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be;
But she is in her grave, and, oh,
The difference to me!
poem by William Wordsworth
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Lucy
She dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dove,
Maid whom there were none to praise
And very few to love:
A violet by a mossy stone
Half hidden from the eye!
--Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky.
She lived unknown, and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be;
But she is in her grave, and, oh,
The difference to me!
poem by William Wordsworth
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Even As A Dragon’s Eye That Feels The Stress
EVEN as a dragon's eye that feels the stress
Of a bedimming sleep, or as a lamp
Suddenly glaring through sepulchral damp,
So burns yon Taper 'mid a black recess
Of mountains, silent, dreary, motionless:
The lake below reflects it not; the sky,
Muffled in clouds, affords no company
To mitigate and cheer its loneliness.
Yet, round the body of that joyless Thing
Which sends so far its melancholy light,
Perhaps are seated in domestic ring
A gay society with faces bright,
Conversing, reading, laughing;--or they sing,
While hearts and voices in the song unite.
poem by William Wordsworth
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Grey Blue Eyes
I feel for the light
Your glory was lost that night
And no mind can't get me right
And now I'm praying that you'll find me out
Stone, stone has pulled me down
But my faith has got me bound to your grey blue eyes
Oh, oh
Oh, oh
Don't forget my broken heart
You remember it from the start
You made it and it's all a part
Of your grey blue eyes
Oh, oh
Oh, oh
You're gone and I know I'm dead
I've lost my way
Can't find me in your grey blue eyes
Grey blue eyes
Grey blue eyes
Grey blue eyes
song performed by by Dave Matthews Band
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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