Unit 4: Selection Vocabulary 2

The day is come when I again repose
Here, under this dark sycamore, and view
These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts

And passing even into my purer mind
With tranquil restoration:—feelings too
Of unremembered pleasure

How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee,
O sylvan Wye! thou wanderer thro' the woods

The sounding cataract
Haunted me like a passion: the tall rock,
The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood

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.

Her gold is true, not the trick
evening light plays on my roses.
She curls into herself, stinger twitching,
gilt wings folded.

Her whole life just a few weeks,
and my pain subsided in a moment.

And she mortally threatened, wholly unaware
that I do this daily, alone with the gold last light,
in what seems to me an act of love.

it was telling me
in no uncertain terms
to bellow forth the tubas and sousaphones

it said so in a human voice,
“Bellow forth”—
and who among us could ignore such odd
and precise counsel?

And thank you the tiny bee’s shadow
perusing these words as I write them.

usage of the word volunteer
familiar to gardeners the wide world
made my pal shout “Oh!” and dance
and plunge his knuckles
into the lush soil before gobbling two strawberries

the bazillion ants labored in their earthen workshops