April Rain

It is not raining rain for me,

It’s raining daffodils;

In every dimpled drop I see

Wild flowers on the hills.

The clouds of gray engulf the day

And overwhelm the town;

It is not raining rain to me,

It’s raining roses down.

It is not raining rain to me,

But fields of clover bloom,

Where any buccaneering bee

Can find a bed and room.

A health unto the happy,

A fig for him who frets!

It is not raining rain to me,

It’s raining violets. 


Robert Loveman

*It's rare that I post poetry on here, but I thought this was too nice to not share. 

Image from here

I wandered Lonely as a Cloud

A lovely poem by William Wordsworth (which I studied this year!): I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. The waves beside them danced; but they Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: A poet could not but be gay, In such a jocund company: I gazed---and gazed---but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought: For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils.