william the lone wanderer

I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud

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.

- William Wordsworth

William Wordsworth - I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud

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.


I Wandered Lonely As A Cloud

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 leaves in glee;
A poet could not be but 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.

- William Wordsworth

Sunday Funday

Each and every Sunday, we share a poem to lighten our soul. Comment your thoughts, short story or any poem you will love to see in a future post. Don’t forget to follow us like and share.

I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud

BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

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.

The signs as lines of poetry...

Aries:

As long as you’re dancing, you can

break the rules. (Mary Oliver)


Taurus:

You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I’ll rise.
(Maya Angelou)


Gemini:

My strategy is that some day
I don’t know how, nor with what pretext
That finally you need me.
(Mario Benedetti)


Cancer:

I weary for desires never guessed,
For alien passions, strange imaginings,
To be some other person for a day.
(Amy Lowell)


Leo:

Even asleep we partake in the becoming of the world. (Czeslaw Milosz)


Virgo:

Love at the lips was touch
As sweet as I could bear
And once that seemed too much
I lived on air.
(Robert Frost)


Libra:

Everyone in me is a bird
I am beating all my wings.
(Anne Sexton)


Scorpio:

To see a world in a grain of sand,
And a heaven in a wild flower,
To hold infinity in the palm of your hand,
And Eternity in an hour.
(William Blake)


Sagittarius:

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.
(William Wordsworth) 


Capricorn:

For I have known them all already, known them all:
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons;
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons.
(T.S. Eliot)


Aquarius:

The calm,
Cool face of the river
Asked me for a kiss.
(Langston Hughes)


Pisces:

But we were a maybe
and never a must
when it should have been us.
(Lang Leav)

Words Worth

Requested: Dialogue Prompt #3: “I’m flirting with you.”


And then my heart with pleasure fills, and dances with the daffodils. - William Wordsworth, “I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud.”


On that morning, his time is devoted to Prout’s À la recherché du temps perdu, and a large double espresso. He spends quiet Sundays off either wandering museums or reading in the coffee shop near his apartment. It is a cozy little café, smelling of dark roasts and sweet syrup, with quiet acoustic music playing in the background. The lack of lyrics makes it easier to focus in on the words of whatever he’s reading that day, which he appreciates.

Proust is one of his favorite authors, and his mother used to read him the English verison, In Search of Lost Time, when he was young. Finally proficient enough of the French language to read the original manuscript, he finds it conjures up bittersweet memories of a time that he himself had lost, experiences stolen by his mother’s illness and further marred by the passing of years.

Reid is working his way through the second volume, but just as the unnamed narrator and his grandmother are headed towards the seaside town of Balbec, he catches a flash of movement in the periphery of his vision.

A young woman has taken the seat across from him, sitting there with a mug of coffee and smile on her face. “Que lisez-vous?” she asks him.

Though he’s spent the last twenty minutes immersed in the language, her use of French still surprises him, and it takes him a moment to answer her question. What is he reading? “Proust,” he responds. “À la recherché du temps perdu.”

She smiles a little wider. “Vous été perdu votre temps? Alors, vous pouvez avois mon temps, si vous voulez.” The implication confuses him, her offer to give him her time to make up for that which he has lost. It’s a play on words, referencing the title of the novel. Reid stays silent, wondering just how to respond. On one hand, this stranger has interrupted his solitude, broken into his thoughts without permission. On the other, she seems to share at least one interest with him, which is a rare occasion.

When he makes no move to react, color creeps into her cheeks, the slightest hint that perhaps her confidence isn’t all that inherent. In English she tries again. “Well, I for one don’t need to go In Search of Lost Time – I already know it’s the time I spent before I met you.”

As a profiler, sometimes it’s hard to stop profiling even when he’s not on the job. It takes a matter of seconds to look her over. The apron she wears tells him she’s a barista here, and while he recognizes her face, they haven’t had many conversations. She’s pretty. Her hair is pulled back, likely to make it easier to work. Tan stains mark the sleeve of her sweater, suggesting she’s already spilled something today. A little bit clumsy. More nervous than she’s trying to let on. Obviously well-read, going by her words.

What he can’t profile, is what she is doing here, sitting with him. Is she on break? There are plenty of other tables she could’ve chosen. Why did she ask him a question she seemed to know the answer to?

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m not trying to be rude, but what are you doing?”

Her confidence is definitely shaken. She fidgets in her chair, twisting a bracelet around her wrist. “I’m flirting with you,” she says, face red. “Or at least, I’m trying to.”

Whatever answer he was expecting, it certainly wasn’t that. “Flirting with me?” he repeats, incredulous. He regrets it instantly when she looks down, embarrassed. It wasn’t meant as an accusation, but he never expected to be accosted by a stranger here. Certainly not in French.

“I’m really sorry if I made you uncomfortable,” she says quickly, stumbling over the words. “I just – I’ve seen you here a lot, and you’re always reading something. You, um, you have really good taste in books, by the way. And I think you’re really cute, so I thought I would try to talk to you. But you’re always so engrossed in what you’re reading, so I figured maybe if I used that, I would get your attention. I’m sorry, I’m probably bothering you. I should go.”

“No, no! Wait. It’s fine. I’m not exactly used to this that’s all. You… you think I’m cute?” Morgan has always teased with nicknames like Pretty Boy, but this is different. For someone like her to think he’s worth noticing is highly unusual for Reid.

At last, she meets his eyes again. “Yeah. A few weeks ago, I was reading Poems, in Two Volumes, you know, Wordsworth? You commented on it. Nobody ever talks to me about poetry. That’s when I started paying attention to the books you read. Dickens, Tolstoy, Rand, Conan Doyle. All the classics. I just wanted to get to know you.”

She reached out to touch the tome of a book between them on the table. Fingers delicately tracing the outline of the cover. “I mean, you always have these huge books with you. But you’re always by yourself. It seemed kind of lonely. I thought you might like some company. Even if it’s just somebody to talk about literature with.”

It startles him, how accurate she is. True, he does love getting lost in the worlds authors have crafted, but there is a reason he carries books around with him. In crowded cafes, people are almost always either working, or chatting with someone else. Since he can’t really do his work here, and he doesn’t have anybody to talk to, he brings something to read. The books are a barrier, a shield to prevent him from realizing just how alone he feels at times.

“I would like that.” Because when he considers it, it would be nice to have somebody to talk to. And it certainly wouldn’t hurt that said somebody thinks he’s cute. Worth her time. “I’m Spencer,” he adds.

“Y/N,” she replies. “It’s nice to finally meet you. I really only knew you by your coffee order, and I couldn’t keep calling you Double Espresso forever.”

And she doesn’t. For the next three Sundays, she comes and sits with him when her morning shift is done. At first, they talk mostly about literature. She has a fondness for poets and coming of age stories. He surprises her with the amount of foreign works he has read. With time, their conversations transition into things more personal. The telling of their own stories.

While their friendship is still new, and there is much they aren’t yet ready to disclose, he is blessed with the ability to gather a great deal about a person’s character in a short timespan. Y/N is trustworthy, loyal. Her kindness is genuine, and her jokes make him laugh. She is working at the coffee shop to help with her grad school tuition (she’s getting her Master’s in English), she has a cat, and when she learns that he works for the FBI she asks him an endless litany of questions about it.

Sundays used to be his day to rest, and he looked forward to the quiet contemplation they brought him. Now, they’ve become his favorite for an entirely different reason. Her. They trade stories and she brightens his day, and before he knows it, he finds himself wanting to spend other days with her, outside of this coffee shop.

“Can I ask you something?” he inquires the next week.

Y/N sets down her mug, looking a little nervous. “Sure. Anything.”

He recalls how she sat down before him with an air of unshakable steadiness, and tries to mimic that confidence. Never has he been good at this sort of thing. But he doesn’t want to fail this time.

“I’ve really enjoyed getting to know you,” he tells her. She tenses, and he realizes she must think he is going to say he doesn’t want to continue this. Oh, but it is just the opposite. “I could say that I wandered lonely as a cloud before I met you, but what are these Wordsworth if – if you won’t go out with me?”

For a split second she is frozen, and then she bursts into laughter. The good kind of laughter, contagious and delighted. A hopeful smile spreads across his face of its own accord.

“Spencer, are you asking me out on a date? With a literary pick-up line?”

“That depends on your answer.”

“Yes,” she replies. “Absolutely, yes. I would love to go on a date with you. Provided we don’t go out for coffee.”

“I was actually thinking more along the lines of the Folger Shakespeare Library?”

She nods, still gleeful. “While Wordsworth might be my favorite, I do still love the Bard.” Across the table, her hand finds his, and she interlaces their fingers. It’s a pleasant sensation, holding her hand. Comforting. It is the opposite of loneliness. “While my heart with pleasure fills, and dances with the daffodils, I must say you fill my heart far more these days.”

This time, her attempts are not met with confusion. Reid squeezes her hand gently, leans in a little closer to her. She is lovely, and his whole body feels lighter in her presence, and he doesn’t want this bliss to end.

“What are you doing, Y/N?” he teases.

“Oh, my dear Spencer. I’m flirting with you, of course.”

anonymous asked:

Hey! I'm doing A2 English literature and I was wondering what books you use for wider reading?

The prose I’ve studied in detail from start to finish in class are 

  • Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte, 
  • Enduring Love by Ian McEwan
  • The Great Gatsby by F. Scott. Fitzgerald, 
  • Sense and Sensibility by Jane Austen
  • Strange Meeting by Susan Hill

The prose I’ve studied in my own time from start to finish are

  • Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte
  • The Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood
  • Far from the Madding Crowd by Thomas Hardy
  • The Catcher in the Rye by J. D. Salinger
  • Pride and Prejudice and Persuasion by Jane Austen
  • 1984 by George Orwell
  • A Farewell to Arms by Ernest Hemingway

Might as well include the other genres whilst I’m at it for the benefit of people wanting to know (and to help me categorise my own WR! ha!)

The plays I’ve studied in class are 

  • The Importance of Being Earnest by Oscar Wilde, 
  • The Changeling by Middleton and Rowley, 
  • A Streetcar Named Desire by Tennessee Williams, 
  • The Taming of the Shrew and Much Ado About Nothing by Shakespeare 
  • A View from the Bridge by Arthur Miller
  • The Accrington Pals by Peter Whelan
  • Journey’s End by R. C. Sherriff

The plays I’ve studied in my own time are

  • Othello and King Lear by Shakespeare
  • Not About Heroes by Stephan MacDonald 
  • The Canterbury Tales – Chaucer (it’s early prose/poetry really, but I saw it presented as a play)

The poems I’ve studied in class are

  • Easter Wings – George Herbert 
  • Sonnet 116, Sonnet 130, Sonnet 18, Sonnet 90 - Shakespeare 
  • The Lovepet – Ted Hughes
  • My Love Is Like To Ice – Edmund Spencer
  • The Clod and The Pebble – William Blake
  • Rain – Edward Thomas
  •  The Good Morrow – John Donne
  • The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock – T. S. Eliot
  • Redemption – George Herbert
  • Death – George Herbert
  • To His Coy Mistress – Andrew Marvell
  • The Definition of Love – Andrew Marvell
  • To Althea, from Prison – Richard Lovelace
  • Hour – Carol Anne Duffy 
  •  A Valediction Forbidding Mourning – John Donne
  • The Sun Rising – John Donne
  • The Canonization – John Donne 
  • Funeral Blues – W. H. Auden 
  • An Arundel Tomb – Phillip Larkin
  • Wild Oats – Phillip Larkin
  • I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud – Wordsworth
  • Loves Secret – William Blake
  • The Lover’s Clock – Sir John Suckling
  • Bright Star – Keats
  • As the Team’s Head Brass – Edward Thomas
  • A Birthday – Christina Rossetti
  • Remember – Christina Rossetti
  • Love’s stricken ‘why’ – Emily Dickinson 
  • My life closed twice – Emily Dickinson
  • Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white – Alfred, Lord Tennyson
  • Meeting at Night – Robert Browning 
  • The Voice – Thomas Hardy 
  • When you are old and grey and full of sleep - W.B. Yeats

Poems that I’ve studied in my own time are

  • Morning Song and Lady Lazarus - Sylvia Plath
  • The Forge - Seamus Heaney
  • [i carry your heart with me(i carry it in] - e. e. cummings
  • Anne Hathaway - Carol Anne Duffy
  • To Autumn - Keats

Extracts that we’ve studied in class (and some I’ve done in my own time) are

  • Tom Jones – Henry Fielding 
  • Pamela – Samuel Richardson 
  • Shamela – Henry Fielding 
  • Our Mutual Friend – Charles Dickens 
  • Moll Flanders – Daniel Defoe 
  • A Vindication of the Rights of Women – Mary Wollstonecraft 
  • Confessions of an English Opium Eater – Thomas De Quincey 
  • To the Lighthouse – Virginia Woolf 
  • The Story of an Hour – Kate Chopin 
  • Atonement – Ian McEwan 
  • The Passion – Jeanette Winterson 
  • The Rainbow – D. H. Lawrence
  • Othello – Shakespeare 
  • Troilus and Cressida – Shakespeare 
  • King John – Shakespeare 
  • Romeo and Juliet – Shakespeare 
  • Twelfth Night – Shakespeare 
  • Dancing at Lughnasa – Brian Friel

+ Going through many past paper extracts from previous years papers

bts as literary quotes

Jimin: “Each time you happen to me all over again.” -The Age of Innocence, Edith Wharton

Yoongi: “They flash upon that inward eye, Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils.” -I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud, William Woodsworth

Namjoon: “The woods are lovely, dark, and deep, But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep.” -Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening, Robert Frost

Hoseok: “Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that’s no matter - tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther…” -The Great Gatsby, F. Scott Fitzgerald

Jin: “I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart; I am, I am, I am.” -The Bell Jar, Sylvia Plath

Jungkook: “A dream, all a dream, that ends in nothing, and leaves the sleeper where he lay down, but I wish you to know that you inspired it.” -A Tale of Two Cities, Charles Dickens

Taehyung: “He stepped down, trying not to look long at her, as if she were the sun, yet he saw her, like the sun, even without looking.” -Anna Karenina, Leo Tolsto

graveyard-poet  asked:

Of all the lists I've seen connecting Myers Briggs personality types with novels--yours seems to be the most accurate. Being an INFP myself, Alice in Wonderland seems to be an apt description. I have a deep and complex request for you: each of the personality types as a poem.

Thank you so much! I’m glad you liked that list. Here’s your request:

Myers Briggs Types as Poems

I went from this site here

ISTJ “Digging” by Seamus Heaney
ISFJ “I Taught Myself to Live Simply” by Anna Akhmatova
INFJ “To My Wife” by Oscar Wilde
INTJ “Seeker of Truth” by E. E. Cummings
ISTP “Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night” by Dylan Thomas
ISFP “I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud” by William Wordsworth
INFP “A Dream Within a Dream” by Edgar Allan Poe
INTP “Where the Sidewalk Ends” by Shel Silverstein
ESTP “Life is Fine” by Langston Hughes
ESFP “Phenomenal Woman” by Maya Angelou
ENFP “The Road Not Taken” by Robert Frost
ENTP “The Raven” by Edgar Allan Poe
ESTJ “Let America be America Again” by Langston Hughes
ESFJ “A Poison Tree” by William Blake
ENFJ “To You” by Walt Whitman
ENTJ “O Captain! My Captain!” by Walt Whitman

Listen

I’m a free agent who plays all the games and everyone knows, but no one loves or hates me.  I’m the grey element with no allegiance found in every picture, the deciding force behind many minor, and every major event.  I will undo some, while others I will make.  All throughout my travels I will never be the hero or the villain, because I will not be history, I make history.

I am a paradigm. I am the scourge. And I am the last best hope of humanity.

I, am the lone wanderer.

This nearly half-sleeve includes the last two lines from William Wordsworth’s poem “I wandered lonely as a cloud.”  I’m a college English instructor; I teach composition and British Literature. I’ve always loved the poem, but in the spring of 2010, I embarked on a week-long Austen pilgrimage (Jane, that is) in south England.  As I wandered, I often though more of Wordsworth than Austen:  the daffodils were everywhere and just so jolly.  I FEEL this poem now.  I chose an Art Nouveau daffodil motif to go with the text, and the shades are simple and muted tones of grey and yellow.  The font is Nouveau.  All-said, this took about nine and a half hours, but it was worth every second.