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Sonnet: Composed upon Westminster

Bridge - by William Wordsworth

Earth has not anything to show more fair:

Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty:
This City now doth, like a garment, wear
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky;
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
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Never did sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill;
Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
The river glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still!

Poem 1

The Character of a Happy Life

'Sir Henry Wotton'

How happy is he born or taught That serveth not another's will; Whose
armour is his honest thought And simple truth his utmost skill! ~ 4

Whose passions not his masters are, Whose soul is still prepared for death,
Untied unto the world by care Of public fame, or private breath: ~8

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Who envies none that chance doth raise, Nor vice: who never understood
How deepest wounds are given by praise; Nor rules of state, but rules of
good; ~ 12

Who hath his life from rumours freed; Whose conscience is his strong
retreat; Whose state can neither flatterers feed, Nor ruin make oppressors
great; ~16

Who God doth late and early pray More of His grace than gifts to lend; And
entertains the harmless day With a religious book or friend; ~20

This man is freed from servile bands Of hope to rise, or fear to fall: Lord of
himself, though And having nothing, not of lands, yet hath all. ~24

Poem 2
Don't quit
By Edgar A. Guest

When things go wrong, as they sometimes will,

when the road you're trudging seems all uphill,
when the funds are low and the debts are high,
and you want to smile but you have to sigh,
when care is pressing you down a bit - rest if you must, but don't you quit.
~6

Life is queer with its twists and turns.

As everyone of us sometimes learns.
And many a fellow turns about when he might have won had he stuck it
out.
Don't give up though the pace seems slow - you may succeed with another
blow. ~12

Often the goal is nearer than it seems to a faint and faltering man;

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Often the struggler has given up when he might have captured the victor's
cup;
and he learned too late when the night came down,
how close he was to the golden crown. ~18

Success is failure turned inside out - the silver tint of the clouds of doubt,
and when you never can tell how close you are,
it may be near when it seems afar;
so stick to the fight when you're hardest hit - it's when things seem worst,
you must not quit. ~24

Poem 3
Ozymandias
P.B.shelley

I met a traveller from an antique land,

Who said "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone

Stand in the desert Near them, on the sand,

Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,

And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,

Tell that its sculptor well those passions read

Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,

The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed; ~8

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And on the pedestal, these words appear:

My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings;

Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!

Nothing beside remains. Round the decay

Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away. ~14

Poem 4
Good Timber

by Douglas Malloch

The tree that never had to fight

For sun and sky and air and light,
But stood out in the open plain
And always got its share of rain,
Never became a forest king
But lived and died a scrubby thing. ~ 6

The man who never had to toil

To gain and farm his patch of soil,
Who never had to win his share
Of sun and sky and light and air,
Never became a manly man
But lived and died as he began. ~ 12

Good timber does not grow with ease:

The stronger wind, the stronger trees;
The further sky, the greater length;
The more the storm, the more the strength.

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By sun and cold, by rain and snow,
In trees and men good timbers grow. ~18

Where thickest lies the forest growth,

We find the patriarchs of both.
And they hold counsel with the stars
Whose broken branches show the scars
Of many winds and much of strife.
This is the common law of life. ~24

Poem 5
Lucy Gray
William Wordsworth

Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray:

And, when I crossed the wild,
I chanced to see at break of day
The solitary child. 4

No mate, no comrade Lucy knew;

She dwelt on a wide moor,
--The sweetest thing that ever grew
Beside a human door! 8

You yet may spy the fawn at play,

The hare upon the green;
But the sweet face of Lucy Gray
Will never more be seen. 12

"To-night will be a stormy night--

You to the town must go;
And take a lantern, Child, to light
Your mother through the snow." 16

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"That, Father! will I gladly do:
'Tis scarcely afternoon--
The minster-clock has just struck two,
And yonder is the moon!". 20

At this the Father raised his hook,

And snapped a faggot-band;
He plied his work;--and Lucy took
The lantern in her hand. 24

Not blither is the mountain roe:

With many a wanton stroke
Her feet disperse the powdery snow,
That rises up like smoke. 28

The storm came on before its time:

She wandered up and down;
And many a hill did Lucy climb:
But never reached the town. 32

The wretched parents all that night

Went shouting far and wide;
But there was neither sound nor sight
To serve them for a guide. 36

At day-break on a hill they stood

That overlooked the moor;
And thence they saw the bridge of wood,
A furlong from their door. 40

They wept--and, turning homeward, cried,

"In heaven we all shall meet;"
--When in the snow the mother spied
The print of Lucy's feet. 44

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Then downwards from the steep hill's edge
They tracked the footmarks small;
And through the broken hawthorn hedge,
And by the long stone-wall; 48

And then an open field they crossed:

The marks were still the same;
They tracked them on, nor ever lost;
And to the bridge they came. 52

They followed from the snowy bank

Those footmarks, one by one,
Into the middle of the plank;
And further there were none! 56

--Yet some maintain that to this day

She is a living child;
That you may see sweet Lucy Gray
Upon the lonesome wild. 60

O'er rough and smooth she trips along,

And never looks behind;
And sings a solitary song
That whistles in the wind. ~ 64

Poem 6
King John and the Abbot of Canterbury
by Anonymous

An ancient story I'll tell you anon

Of a notable prince that was called King John;
And he ruled England with main and with might,

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For he did great wrong, and maintained little right.

And I'll tell you a story, a story so merrie,

Concerning the Abbot of Canterbury;
How for his housekeeping and high renown,
They rode post for him to fair London town.

An hundred men, the king did hear say,

The abbot kept in his house every day;
And fifty gold chains without any doubt,
In velvet coats waited the abbot about.

"How now, father abbot, I hear it of thee,

Thou keepest a far better house than me;
And for thy housekeeping and high renown,
I fear thou work'st treason against my crown."

"My liege," quo' the abbot, "I would it were known

I never spend nothing, but what is my own;
And I trust your grace will do me no deere,
For spending of my own true-gotten gear."

"Yes, yes, father abbot, thy fault is high,

And now for the same thou needst must die;
For except thou canst answer me questions three,
Thy head shall be smitten from thy bodie.

"And first," quo' the king, "when I'm in this stead,

With my crown of gold so fair on my head,
Among all my liege-men so noble of birth,

Thou must tell me to one penny what I am worth.

"Secondlie, tell me, without any doubt,

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How soon I may ride the whole world about;
And at the third question thou must not shrink,
But tell me here truly what I do think."

"Oh, these are hard questions for my shallow wit,

Nor I cannot answer your grace as yet:
But if you will give me but three weeks' space,
I'll do my endeavour to answer your grace."

"Now three weeks' space to thee will I give,

And that is the longest time thou hast to live;
For if thou dost not answer my questions three,
Thy lands and thy livings are forfeit to me."

Away rode the abbot all sad at that word,

And he rode to Cambridge and Oxenford,
But never a doctor there so wise,
That could with his learning an answer devise.

Then home rode the abbot of comfort so cold,

And he met his shepherd a-going to fold;
"How now, my lord abbot, you are welcome home;
What news do you bring us from good King John?"

"Sad news, sad news, shepherd, I must give,

That I have but three days more to live;
For if I do not answer him questions three,
My head will be smitten from my bodie.

"The first is to tell him there in that stead

With his crown of gold so fair on his head,
Among all his liege-men so noble of birth,
To within one penny of what he is worth.

"The second to tell him, without any doubt,

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How soon he may ride the whole world about:
And at the third question I must not shrink,
But tell him there truly what he does think."

"Now cheer up, sir abbot, did you never hear yet,
That a fool he may learn a wise man wit?
Lend me your horse and serving men, and your apparel,
And I'll ride to London to answer your quarrel.

"Nay, frown not, if it hath been told unto me,

I am like your lordship as ever may be;
And if you will but lend me your gown,
There is none shall know us at fair London town."

"Now horses and serving men thou shalt have,

With sumptuous array most gallant and brave,
With crozier and mitre, and rochet and cope,
Fit to appear 'fore our father the pope."

"Now welcome, sir abbot," the king he did say,

" 'Tis well thou'rt come back to keep thy day;

For and if thou canst answer my questions three,

Thy life and thy living both saved shall be.

"And first, when thou seest me here in this stead,

With my crown of gold so fair on my head,
Among my liege-men so noble of birth,
Tell me to one penny what I am worth."

"For thirty pence our Saviour was sold

Among the false Jews, as I have been told:
And twenty-nine is the worth of thee,
For I think thou art one penny worse than he!"

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The king laughed, and swore by St. Bittel,
"I did not think I had been worth so little!--
Now secondly, tell me, without any doubt,
How soon I may ride this whole world about."

"You must rise with the sun, and ride with the same
Until the next morning he rises again;

And then your grace need not make any doubt

But in twenty-four hours you'll ride it about."

The king he laughed, and swore by St. John,

"I did not think it could be done so soon!
Now from the third question thou must not shrink,
But tell me here truly what I do think."

"Yes, that shall I do, and make your grace merrie;

You think I'm the abbot of Canterbury;

But I'm his poor shepherd, as plain you may see,

That am come to beg pardon for him and for me."

The king he laughed, and swore by the mass,

"I'll make you lord abbot this day in his place!"
"Now nay, my liege, be not in such speed,
For alack, I can neither write nor read."

"Four nobles a week then I will give thee,

For this merrie jest thou has shown to me;
And tell the old abbot when thou comest home,

Thou hast brought him a pardon from good King John.". ~108

Poem 7

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Selection from Sur Khahori
(Shah Abdul Latif Bhitai)

Mother! I saw those, who have Beloved seen, One must stay a night with
those who with God have been, Their recognition becomes a raft in this
ocean of the world.
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Khahoris prepared early to depart, Searching in the rocks, reduced to

bones they are, Giving much trouble to their bodies, they sought their goal.
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Their faces are dry, on their feet are slippers old and torn, They traversed
that land, where even the knowing ones are lost, Their secretive ones, talk
secrets of that far off land.
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Where not a trace of birds is seen, fire is lit, Who save a group of ascetics
can kindle it?
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Those who went to jungle were not misled, Those on high way were
way-laid, Those who gave up both the worlds, were from ignorance saved.
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True seekers still exist, Known only to those who are for spiritual realms,
Having found them, they have built their nests close to them.
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Translated by Professor Amina Khamisani

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