Tuesday, 26 November 2013

is Sunny lost?

There was a boy called Sunny. He was a shy boy. He wasn't like the others in his village, he had a beautiful and gentle heart. One passion he had was of sailing, far out into the mighty ocean. Upon his little sailing boat he would visit distant lands.
In the cold and lonely deep, he would look up to the Moon shining on the water and he felt less alone. The Moon grew fond of the little sailor Sunny, and often came out from behind the clouds to look down upon him.
Sunny made the Moon smile, they became the best of friends.
Often a time he would write to her and send her secret messages. None of the others in the village understood Sunny and the Moon but that was ok. The Moon would smile and shine her brightest light upon his up-turned cheek.
But there came a night when the waves grew angry and they tossed and turned mightily in all the waters and Sunny's little sailing boat was whisked away, far away.
The Moon looked out all over the waves and at every bay along the coast but Sunny and his boat were not to be found. The Moon tried to send out her secret messages to reach him, to ask the sea creatures, but no one could tell her where he was.

She hopes that Sunny has found his own Arcady, and that he isn't lost or hurting.
But the Moon hasn't lost hope, she still waits in the clouds to this day, waiting for her friend to return again on the waters.
To look down once more upon Sunny and his little sailing boat and smile.

Thursday, 7 November 2013



Our ideal should always be to strive for what is eternal in art. That which will never die, which will always remain young and close to human hearts.
- Constantin Stanislavsky

Wednesday, 6 November 2013

I want to be old

I wished he would not always treat me as a child, rather spoilt, rather irresponsible, someone to be petted from time to time when the mood came upon him, but more often forgotten, more often patted on the shoulder and told to run away and play.  I wished something would happen to make me look wiser, more mature.  Was it always going to be like this?  He away ahead of me, with his own moods that I did not share, his secret troubles that I did not know?  Would we never be together, he a man and I a woman, standing shoulder to shoulder, hand in hand, with no gulf between us?  I did not want to be a child.  I wanted to be his wife, his mother.  I wanted to be old.

Daphne Du Maurier (Rebecca)

Monday, 14 October 2013

what is left

Love is a temporary madness, it erupts like volcanoes and then subsides. And when it subsides, you have to make a decision. You have to work out whether your roots have so entwined together that it is inconceivable that you should ever part. Because this is what love is. Love is not breathlessness, it is not excitement, it is not the promulgation of promises of eternal passion, it is not the desire to mate every second minute of the day, it is not lying awake at night imagining that he is kissing every cranny of your body. No, don't blush, I am telling you some truths. That is just being "in love", which any fool can do. Love itself is what is left over when being in love has burned away, and this is both an art and a fortunate accident.

Louis de Bernieres (Corelli's Mandolin)

a david psalm

Why is everyone hungry for more?
 "More, more," they say.
"More, more"
I have God's more-than-enough,
More joy in one ordinary day than they get in all their shopping sprees.
At day's end I'm ready for sound sleep,
For you, God, have put my life back together.

Psalm 4: 6-8 (The Message)

Saturday, 28 September 2013


Writing isn't about being experimental, it's about finding what is true.

Zadie Smith

ready, full and complete

Dear brothers and sisters, is your life full of difficulties and temptations?
Then be happy, for when the way is rough, your patience has a chance to grow. So let it grow, and don't squirm out of your problems. For when your patience is finally in full bloom, then you will be ready for anything, strong in character, full and complete.

James 1: 2-4 ( the living bible)

Sunday, 22 September 2013

something a little different

I look out of my flat window and I see rubbish strewn up the alley way, there is washing hanging on the line further up. I must put the soup boiling soon.
The sun is beginning to set now. The seagulls perch on the chimneys, the gold reflecting off their stark white breasts. They mutter to each other. 
The sky is purple almost.

Today I walked to see the sea. I met a man there. He was probably about 70 something. 
He knew everything about this county, he could talk on and on about the waterways which I pretended, with keen nodding eyes, that I understood exactly what he was on about. To be polite, you know.
He made me smile. He wished me well and I, he. 

I walked through the park on my way back here.
 I sat and read a play of Harold Pinter's. Betrayal it was. It was all right. He has a way of setting his dialogue, very quick it is. Lots beneath, through the characters.
 I like the way he does it.
 It just cries out for actor's voices to take them, take the lines and sing them out.
Easy in the mouth.    
Easy in the air.

Funny isn't it? 
How private we all are.
And does one ever really know what another's thoughts are?


your life is not small

Well, now is the right time to listen, the day to be helped. Don’t put it off; don’t frustrate God’s work by showing up late, throwing a question mark over everything we’re doing. Our work as God’s servants gets validated—or not—in the details. People are watching us as we stay at our post, alertly, unswervingly . . . in hard times, tough times, bad times; when we’re beaten up, jailed, and mobbed; working hard, working late, working without eating; with pure heart, clear head, steady hand; in gentleness, holiness, and honest love; when we’re telling the truth, and when God’s showing his power; when we’re doing our best setting things right; when we’re praised, and when we’re blamed; slandered, and honoured; true to our word, though distrusted; ignored by the world, but recognized by God; terrifically alive, though rumoured to be dead; beaten within an inch of our lives, but refusing to die; immersed in tears, yet always filled with deep joy; living on handouts, yet enriching many; having nothing, having it all.

Dear, dear Corinthians, I can’t tell you how much I long for you to enter this wide-open, spacious life. We didn't fence you in. The smallness you feel comes from within you. Your lives aren't small, but you’re living them in a small way. I'm speaking as plainly as I can and with great affection. Open up your lives. Live openly and expansively!

2 Corinthians 6: 1-13 (The message)

I believe it, so I said it.

2 Corinthians 4:13

Saturday, 21 September 2013


No entertainment is so cheap as reading, nor any pleasure so lasting. 

Mary Wortley Montagu

this moment is safe

I wanted to go on sitting there, not talking, not listening to the others, keeping the moment precious for all time, because we were peaceful all of us, we were content and drowsy even as the bee who droned above our heads. In a little while it would be different, there would come tomorrow, and the next day and another year. And we would be changed perhaps, never sitting quite like this again. Some of us would go away, or suffer, or die, the future stretched away in front of us, unknown, unseen, not perhaps what we wanted, not what we planned. This moment was safe though, this could not be touched. Here we sat together, Maxim and I, hand-in-hand, and the past and the future mattered not at all. This was secure, this funny little fragment of time he would never remember, never think about again…For them it was just after lunch, quarter-past-three on a haphazard afternoon, like any hour, like any day. They did not want to hold it close, imprisoned and secure, as I did. They were not afraid.

Daphne Du Maurier (Rebecca)

Friday, 20 September 2013

je reviens

The ships sail away under their sky of dew
But my heart is frail, it is frail for you

I wonder if these trials can be borne much more
At night my mind wanders along a lonely distant shore

The stones underfoot glimmer with a vague dancing light
At times I cannot see at all and it sets me all a fright

But oft' I hear you and see you dancing there
I watch you and believe of my bone you do share

I can think of summer haze with lawns set ablaze
The holding hands along blackberry-ied ways

The laughter from the shingle, a beat of music pure
The giddy feet of us running crazed along the shore

Though the ships sail still with mast white and strong
I let the tear go and the silence slip from my tongue

For we are swept along the ever-swirling tide
But we shall ride the waves together, you and I

Because there at your side,
The time, do I bide

Joanna Grace 

Thursday, 19 September 2013

Wuthering Heights

Heaven did not seem to be my home; and I broke my heart with weeping to come back to earth; and the angels were so angry that they flung me out into the middle of the heath on the top of Wuthering Heights; where I woke sobbing for joy.

Emily Bronte (Wuthering Heights)

Wednesday, 7 August 2013

Sonnet V

A fickle passion's like to a painting
Which through the course of tedious Time but ebbs:
The wrinkling canvass's face needs restoring
From assailing year's dirty dusts and webs.

The virtue of a sculpture's kindred with
Untruthful love, who could never outlive
The breadth of wearying Time's unending width.
Dishonest Love, statues--- all corrosive.

But True Love and Poetry are both akin.
Both endure, and both, through time grow but strong.
In my poetry, my dear, you're reining Queen
Over hours, days, years--- over all Time's throng!

My Grace, thy fair face, thy virtues divine,
Shall age in my verse as eternal wine.

                                                                            - The Knight of Hillsborough 

Friday, 19 July 2013

Sunday, 30 June 2013

Imagination of a writer

Something that interests me greatly is the mind of an author. 

I have written two novels, during which time I took part in the creation of worlds beyond my power- beyond me. There is something utterly spectacular and incredible in the emergence of a character. I have often had conversations with my sister over the journey of writing a book, I tried to explain in the simplest way possible that it was not I who decided upon the plot or what actions took place, that it was the characters themselves; I was merely recording all they showed me! She half-believed me. Since then I have heard of authors saying the same thing. 

I have just finished reading Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte and was captivated by the power evoked by the characters. It means so much to me to think that she too had these 'people' absorbing her mind night and day, just as my own characters had evaded my inmost privacy. 

I like to think of Emily out walking upon the heath and image her muttering to Heathcliff, asking him what his next action would be. It's an inspirational process to say the least.  

Reading Charlotte Bronte's introduction to the novel, I found a statement that I could not resist in posting. I hope those of you who already understand will be united  with fellow authors of this world, departed and living, and those of you who can't quite understand, will at least have more sympathy to those who do have active imaginations! 

“But this I know; the writer who possesses the creative gift owns something of which he is not always master--something that at times strangely wills and works for itself. He may lay down rules and devise principles, and to rules and principles it will perhaps for years lie in subjection; and then, haply without any warning of revolt, there comes a time when it will no longer consent.”

Monday, 24 June 2013


Do you know I used to think many things about love, I had a million and one ideas about what I thought was love and what wasn't. The idea of romantic love made me question all that I had been raised to think. I thought that the blooming passion and sensitivity of romantic love was superficial. I had seen with my own eyes romantic 'love' that only lasted three weeks or two years at the most. I thought it told us to give up, that it only displayed a selfish and useless waste of emotion and time.

But there has always been a constant and grounded love in my life, one that has been with me from my very first breath and will be until my last, and that is God's love for me. A divine love for his children. Here is the difference: Divine - Natural... love.

When I am feeling disappointed with the 'love' presented in this world I look to my mother, to Jesus, to my family and friends and there I find love in action. There I am always encouraged that there is still love out there that is actually love. Do you know the world was trying to trick me to think that love was heartbreak and rejection or confusion?

Now I see that romantic love shouldn't be in one genre all on its own. If it is then we are all in trouble, because love shouldn't be classified. If it is only romantic than it will fade and wither once the passion subsides, if it is only selfish it will soon run out when the person stops liking the other person and wanting to be around them. Romance is good when enthused through selfless love, but it is certainly not everything, only one colour of the rainbow that makes love.

Leo Buscaglia, was a great lover of a man who aimed to live life and taste and feel and touch everything, even pain and despair, well he taught me that if love expects love in return, it was never love in the first place. Because love never expects, it doesn't need that to survive; love loves to love.

We don't have enough role models to look up to. Surrounding us are broken marriages and failing and fleeting relationships. This is a difficult area because there are many reasons for a breakdown, but I want to challenge the world to look out for unbiased, selfless and all-giving, unconditional love. Love that says 'hey I'm sorry that you don't want to be with me any more, or that you want to move out and start your own life, but I still love you. I'll never give you up! How can love ever change from what it is?' But humans fail and even mothers can give up their children, so we must constantly look to God to find a stable and all-encompassing love that never, ever fails. And if God could fail in his love for you, than he would cease to be God, because God is love, it is a circle that will never be broken.
Yes there may be instances where couples cannot remain together, or sisters or brothers fall out with each other, but we must try harder. We must strive to be like our creator.

Some people say that to be idealistic is ridiculous and not true to life, but where there is hope there is always life. And living life, I mean actually living (tasting food, touching the bark on trees, breathing the scent of summer) is loving. You cannot be dead and dried up and apathetic and be living and therefore you cannot be loving. When you embrace all that is found here on earth, even the trials and tears, you can love fully and wonderfully.

An answer: to risk. When we risk we gain. Even if it is loss because through that it has already changed us and change is good, it's healthy, it's human. We cannot learn unless we change.

Do you know why I think so many today are loosing out in relationships? Because they have lost themselves. They have lost what is so special about them. They have become overwhelmed in the idea of another person and have forfeited themselves.Perhaps they never found themselves from the start, perhaps their upbringing never taught them or showed them how to cherish their uniqueness. If so than now is the time to start seeing you. knowing you. You must learn to love you, to love yourself, if you miss that one aim in life, how can you possibly appreciate anyone else for how unique they are? I don't mean you have to be egotistical and big-headed- that is nowhere near what loving yourself should be. If you are egotistical than you are spoiling yourself, ruining yourself.
There is no one on earth quite like you that surely means that you were made to be just and only you!
If you don't love yourself you will be constantly afraid, you will be insecure, you will live in doubt and fear. You will place all your hopes and dreams upon someone else because only then do you think you will get what you deserve and then when they can't give you what you hunger for you breakdown and can't face the world any more or humanity. That's certainly not the way God intended for you to live. Yes there are many hurts on this earth, yes you will be hurt, but that's not the end. Don't ever let that be the end, let that be the beginning of the journey in loving and giving and feeling, being free.
Buscaglia says, 'to keep you hidden, to lose you because of self-defeating ideas is to die. Don't let that happen. Your greatest responsibility is to become everything that you are, not only for your benefit, but for mine.'

So far in my own journey upon this earth I have learnt a great deal. I have waited to be proved wrong too many times. Instead of waiting I will go there and see and discover for myself. I will prove myself wrong and say that love is real, and that love does exist and that it has always been right there in front of me. I think we often let the idea of 'couples' define what love is, but perhaps we should always be looking at friendship first or Agape love, family love, God's love, maybe until we have done this, should we look at couples. Because the love of a wife and husband must first be rooted in the former ways. Perhaps then we will be able to say that we understand a little more, not everything, but a little more and that's better than before.

I'd like to end this post with a beautiful statement from the Dalai Lama:

Our prime purpose in this life is to help others. And if you can't help them, at least don't hurt them.

Wednesday, 19 June 2013

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 heap'd for the belov├Ęd's bed;
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.
      Percy Bysshe Shelley


I will refresh Israel like the dew from heaven; she will blossom as the lily and root deeply in the soil like cedars in Lebanon. Her branches will spread out, as beautiful as olive trees, fragrant as the forests of Lebanon.

- Hosea 14: 5-6

Wednesday, 12 June 2013

Sonnet II

The windful of waves washing the cliff,
Fiery foams, as if afire, arising.
Oh huge Glorious Glove, for gladness or grief,
Unveils awe in the ocean, overpowering.

Lesser ladies live up to such a tide.
A barren-full of abilities and beauty make them bold.
To haughty heights are heaved their pride,
Towering tall to pomposities untold.

Though torrent-teaming, tides are still tamed,
For swooning sinks their might at the Seashore.
As Lunging-Legions are they no longer named;
Ships ashore are shivering no more.

My dearest darling, you are the Shore in deified state,
Lesser ladies, by your loveliness, do kneel prostrate.

- The Knight of Hillsborough 

Sunday, 9 June 2013

guardian of my heart

In nature and the language of the sense,
The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse,
The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul
Of all my moral being.

- William Wordsworth (Tintern Abbey)

Hate Religion, but Love Jesus

Wednesday, 24 April 2013

Helen Keller's Legacy

Helen Keller must be one of the most talented, intelligent, brave, courageous, thoughtful, and influential, activists of her time. 
From the terrible disease of scarlet fever as a child she became completely deaf, blind and mute. In a time where people didn't know how to aid disabled people, she rose above all expectations and taught the world how to live and breathe.

 Her teacher, Anne Sullivan broke through the isolation of near complete lack of language, allowing Helen to blossom as she learned to communicate. She was the first deafblind person to earn a Bachelor of Arts degree. 

                                                     She was an incredible person.
 I encourage you to watch the play or film, 'The Miracle Worker', it cannot but help make you aware of how much you take for granted every single day. 

God will give strength to all who stand up against the crowd and rise above the limitations until there are none.

 "I am only one, but still I am one. I cannot do everything, but still I can do something; and because I cannot do everything, I will not refuse to do something that I can do."

Tuesday, 23 April 2013

The day I discovered I was a Romantic

The day I discovered I was a Romantic. 
My studying turned to William Wordsworth and I learnt in depth what he began in English literature.
 He began Romanticism.

The word wasn't thought of in the same way then as it is today.
It was a new way of crafting poetry. It didn't care for the rules of the Augustan age before, where writers placed so much importance on how they wrote and not what was beneath their words.   
But William saw the suffering of the poor just as William Blake did, and he wrote about it in his poems.

William's way of looking at the world was through nature. The shapes, colours, textures, and the scale of the beauty of nature had a powerful and emotional effect on him and others who thought like him.

The Romantics pictured themselves as aloof from the crowd. 
They placed significance on imagination, intuition and emotion.
They also believed that childhood was the epitome of who the adult would later become.
Samuel Taylor Coleridge feverishly wanted his children to grow up in the countryside. He insisted that nature should be his children's teacher, and that the urban way of life should be prevented from seeping into the child's existence before it was necessary.

When William Wordsworth was studying in Cambridge, he found that he had hardly any inspiration because he was not surrounded by his wonderful countryside. 

I know that my childhood, rambling freely amid the corn and flowers, trees and meadows was what instilled within me a love for all things natural upon this earth.
 Now that I am at university in the middle of a very big city, I cannot help hungering for the meadows of home, for the soft river, for the sweet and gentle bells tolling from the church.
I knew somewhere within me that I had always known there were others gone before that thought the same way I did. 
And there still are human beings now breathing upon the earth they born into or wanted to be born into.
And we are just the same. 
You are not alone.

Why did all this happen? Why is nature so important? Why was it such a colossal movement?

Because creation is God's own handiwork. It was crafted by him and brings glory to him and will forever more.
And so through it we find splendour, power, spirituality, purpose, and utter wonder.

We too are his,
 and we were made to worship him just as the birds do.

"The earth has music for those who listen"

- George Santayana 

Sunday, 21 April 2013


How could I have lived all that time without realising that everything in the world has a voice and speaks?

Not just the things that are supposed to speak, but the others, like the gate, the walls of the houses, the shade of trees, the sand, and the silence.

-Lusseyran,(And There Was Light.)

Tuesday, 16 April 2013

the secrets of creation

I was like a boy playing on the sea-shore, 
diverting myself now and then, 
finding a smoother pebble or a prettier shell than ordinary, 
whilst the great ocean of truth lay all undiscovered before me.

Isaac Newton


Sunday, 14 April 2013

Look what I have!

                 Not in a silver casket cool with pearls                                           Or rich with red corundum or with blue,
Locked, and the key withheld, as other girls
Have given their loves, I give my love to you;

Not in a lovers'-knot, not in a ring
Worked in such fashion, and the legend plain—
Semper fidelis, where a secret spring
Kennels a drop of mischief for the brain:

Love in the open hand, nothing but that,
Ungemmed, unhidden, wishing not to hurt,
As one should bring you cowslips in a hat
Swung from the hand, or apples in her skirt,

I bring you, calling out as children do:
"Look what I have!—And these are all for you

 Edna St. Vincent Millay

Sonnet to the River Otter

Dear native Brook! wild Streamlet of the West!
How many various-fated years have past,
What happy and what mournful hours, since last
I skimm'd the smooth thin stone along thy breast,

Numbering its light leaps! yet so deep imprest
Sink the sweet scenes of childhood, that mine eyes
I never shut amid the sunny ray,
But straight with all their tints thy waters rise,

Thy crossing plank, thy marge with willows grey,
And bedded sand that vein'd with various dyes
Gleam'd through thy bright transparence! On my way,
Visions of Childhood! oft have ye beguil'd

Lone manhood's cares, yet waking fondest sighs:
Ah! that once more I were a careless Child!

Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Tuesday, 9 April 2013

Reading Nature




Five years have past; five summers, with the length
Of five long winters! and again I hear
These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs
With a sweet inland murmur.—Once again
Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs,
Which on a wild secluded scene impress
Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect
The landscape with the quiet of the sky.
The day is come when I again repose
Here, under this dark sycamore, and view
These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts,
Which, at this season, with their unripe fruits,
Among the woods and copses lose themselves,
Nor, with their green and simple hue, disturb
The wild green landscape. Once again I see
These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines
Of sportive wood run wild; these pastoral farms,
Green to the very door; and wreathes of smoke
Sent up, in silence, from among the trees,
With some uncertain notice, as might seem,
Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods,
Or of some hermit's cave, where by his fire
The hermit sits alone.
                                     Though absent long,
These forms of beauty have not been to me,
As is a landscape to a blind man's eye:
But oft, in lonely rooms, and mid the din
Of towns and cities, I have owed to them,
In hours of weariness, sensations sweet,
Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart,
And passing even into my purer mind
With tranquil restoration:—feelings too
Of unremembered pleasure; such, perhaps,
As may have had no trivial influence
On that best portion of a good man's life;
His little, nameless, unremembered acts
Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust,
To them I may have owed another gift,
Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood,
In which the burthen of the mystery,
In which the heavy and the weary weight
Of all this unintelligible world
Is lighten'd:—that serene and blessed mood,
In which the affections gently lead us on,
Until, the breath of this corporeal frame,
And even the motion of our human blood
Almost suspended, we are laid asleep
In body, and become a living soul:
While with an eye made quiet by the power
Of harmony, and the deep power of joy,
We see into the life of things.
                                                If this
Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oft,
In darkness, and amid the many shapes
Of joyless day-light; when the fretful stir
Unprofitable, and the fever of the world,
Have hung upon the beatings of my heart,
How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee
O sylvan Wye! Thou wanderer through the wood
How often has my spirit turned to thee!
And now, with gleams of half-extinguish'd though[t,]
With many recognitions dim and faint,
And somewhat of a sad perplexity,
The picture of the mind revives again:
While here I stand, not only with the sense
Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts
That in this moment there is life and food
For future years. And so I dare to hope
Though changed, no doubt, from what I was, when first
I came among these hills; when like a roe
I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides
Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams,
Wherever nature led; more like a man
Flying from something that he dreads, than one
Who sought the thing he loved. For nature then
(The coarser pleasures of my boyish days,
And their glad animal movements all gone by,)
To me was all in all.—I cannot paint
What then I was. The sounding cataract
Haunted me like a passion: the tall rock,
The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,
Their colours and their forms, were then to me
An appetite: a feeling and a love,
That had no need of a remoter charm,
By thought supplied, or any interest
Unborrowed from the eye.—That time is past,
And all its aching joys are now no more,
And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this
Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur; other gifts
Have followed, for such loss, I would believe,
Abundant recompence. For I have learned
To look on nature, not as in the hour
Of thoughtless youth, but hearing oftentimes
The still, sad music of humanity,
Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power
To chasten and subdue. And I have felt
A presence that disturbs me with the joy
Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime
Of something far more deeply interfused,
Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,
And the round ocean, and the living air,
And the blue sky, and in the mind of man,
A motion and a spirit, that impels
All thinking things, all objects of all thought,
And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still
A lover of the meadows and the woods,
And mountains; and of all that we behold
From this green earth; of all the mighty world
Of eye and ear, both what they half-create,
And what perceive; well pleased to recognize
In nature and the language of the sense,
The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse,
The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul
Of all my moral being.
                                     Nor, perchance,
If I were not thus taught, should I the more
Suffer my genial spirits to decay:
For thou art with me, here, upon the banks
Of this fair river; thou, my dearest Friend,
My dear, dear Friend, and in thy voice I catch
The language of my former heart, and read
My former pleasures in the shooting lights
Of thy wild eyes. Oh! yet a little while
May I behold in thee what I was once,
My dear, dear Sister! And this prayer I make,
Knowing that Nature never did betray
The heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege,
Through all the years of this our life, to lead
From joy to joy: for she can so inform
The mind that is within us, so impress
With quietness and beauty, and so feed
With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues,
Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men,
Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all
The dreary intercourse of daily life,
Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb
Our chearful faith that all which we behold
Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon
Shine on thee in thy solitary walk;
And let the misty mountain winds be free
To blow against thee: and in after years,
When these wild ecstasies shall be matured
Into a sober pleasure, when thy mind
Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms,
Thy memory be as a dwelling-place
For all sweet sounds and harmonies; Oh! then,
If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief,
Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts
Of tender joy wilt thou remember me,
And these my exhortations! Nor, perchance,
If I should be, where I no more can hear
Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams
Of past existence, wilt thou then forget
That on the banks of this delightful stream
We stood together; and that I, so long
A worshipper of Nature, hither came,
Unwearied in that service: rather say
With warmer love, oh! with far deeper zeal
Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget,
That after many wanderings, many years
Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs,
And this green pastoral landscape, were to me
More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake.

- William Wordsworth