To Wordsworth

Poet of Nature, thou hast wept to know
That things depart which never may return:
Childhood and youth, friendship and love’s first glow,
Have fled like sweet dreams, leaving thee to mourn.
These common woes I feel. One loss is mine
Which thou too feel’st, yet I alone deplore.
Thou wert as a lone star whose light did shine
On some frail bark in winter’s midnight roar:
Thou hast like to a rock-built refuge stood
Above the blind and battling multitude:
In honoured poverty thy voice did weave
Songs consecrate to truth and liberty, —
Deserting these, thou leavest me to grieve,
Thus having been, that thou should cease to be.

https://www.theguardian.com/books/2026/feb/09/poem-of-the-week-to-wordsworth-by-percy-bysshe-shelley

#Shelley #Wordsworth #Poetry #PoemofTheWeek

The Secret Day by Stella Benson

My yesterday has gone, has gone and left me tired,
And now tomorrow comes and beats upon the door;
So I have built To-day, the day that I desired,
Lest joy come not again, lest peace return no more,
Lest comfort come no more.

So I have built To-day, a proud and perfect day,
And I have built the towers of cliffs upon the sands;
The foxgloves and the gorse I planted on my way;
The thyme, the velvet thyme, grew up beneath my hands,
Grew pink beneath my hands.

So I have built To-day, more precious than a dream;
And I have painted peace upon the sky above;
And I have made immense and misty seas that seem
More kind to me than life, more fair to me than love —
More beautiful than love...

https://www.theguardian.com/books/2026/feb/02/poem-of-the-week-the-secret-day-by-stella-benson

#StellaBenson #Poetry #PoemofTheWeek #FirstWorldWar #Peace

Song by Lady Mary Chudleigh

Why, Damon, why, why, why so pressing?
The Heart you beg’s not worth possessing:
Each Look, each Word, each Smile’s affected,
And inward Charms are quite neglected:
Then scorn her, scorn her, foolish Swain,
And sigh no more, no more in vain.

Beauty’s worthless, fading, flying;
Who would for Trifles think of dying?
Who for a Face, a Shape wou’d languish,
And tell the Brooks, and Groves his Anguish,
Till she, till she thinks fit to prize him,
And all, and all beside despise him?

Fix, fix your Thoughts on what’s inviting,
On what will never bear the slighting:
Wit and Virtue claim your Duty,
They’re much more worth than Gold and Beauty:
To them, to them, your Heart resign,
And you’ll no more, no more repine.

https://www.theguardian.com/books/2026/jan/26/poem-of-the-week-song-by-lady-mary-chudleigh

#Poetry #Poemoftheweek #MaryChudleigh #ProtoFeminism

Dream-Pedlary

i.

If there were dreams to sell.
What would you buy?
Some cost a passing bell;
Some a light sigh,
That shakes from Life’s fresh crown
Only a rose-leaf down.
If there were dreams to sell,
Merry and sad to tell,
And the crier rung the bell,
What would you buy?

ii.

A cottage lone and still,
With bowers nigh,
Shadowy, my woes to still,
Until I die.
Such pearl from Life’s fresh crown
Fain would I shake me down.
Were dreams to have at will,
This would best heal my ill,
This would I buy.

iii.

But there were dreams to sell
Ill didst thou buy;
Life is a dream, they tell,
Waking, to die.
Dreaming a dream to prize,
Is wishing ghosts to rise;
And, if I had the spell
To call the buried well
Which one would I?

https://www.theguardian.com/books/2026/jan/12/poem-of-the-week-dream-pedlary-by-thomas-lovell-beddoes

#Poemoftheweek #DreamPedlary #ThomasLovellBeddoes #Poetry #Reading

The Guardian's Poem of The Week is

On the Death of Dr Robert Levet by Samuel Johnson

Condemned to Hope’s delusive mine
As on we toil from day to day,
By sudden blast or slow decline,
Our social comforts drop away.

Well tried through many a varying year,
See Levet to the grave descend;
Officious, innocent, sincere,
Of every friendless name the friend.

Yet still he fills Affection’s eye,
Obscurely wise, and coarsely kind;
Nor, lettered Arrogance, deny
Thy praise to merit unrefined.

When fainting Nature called for aid,
And hovering Death prepared the blow,
His vigorous remedy displayed
The power of art without the show.

In Misery’s darkest cavern known,
His useful care was ever nigh,
Where hopeless Anguish poured his groan,
And lonely Want retired to die.

No summons mocked by chill delay,
No petty gain disdained by pride,
The modest wants of every day
The toil of every day supplied...

https://www.theguardian.com/books/2025/oct/20/poem-of-the-week-on-the-death-of-dr-robert-levet-by-samuel-johnson

#SamuelJohnson #Elegy #Poetry #PoemofTheWeek #Reading #TheGuardian