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    Three Years She Grew

    Uploaded by

    Sree Gopal Panjabi Mahal

    Copyright:

    © All Rights Reserved
    Download as PDF, TXT or read online from Scribd

    Three Years She Grew

    Uploaded by

    Sree Gopal Panjabi Mahal
    60 views5 pages

    Copyright

    © © All Rights Reserved

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    PDF, TXT or read online from Scribd

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    Copyright:

    © All Rights Reserved
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    Download as pdf or txt
    60 views5 pages

    Three Years She Grew

    Uploaded by

    Sree Gopal Panjabi Mahal

    Copyright:

    © All Rights Reserved
    Download as PDF, TXT or read online from Scribd
    Download as pdf or txt
    of 5

    Three Years She Grew

    BY W I L L I A M W O R D S W O R T H

    Three years she grew in sun and shower,


    Then Nature said, "A lovelier flower
    On earth was never sown;
    This Child I to myself will take;
    She shall be mine, and I will make
    A Lady of my own.

    "Myself will to my darling be


    Both law and impulse: and with me
    The Girl, in rock and plain,
    In earth and heaven, in glade and bower,
    Shall feel an overseeing power
    To kindle or restrain.

    "She shall be sportive as the fawn


    That wild with glee across the lawn
    Or up the mountain springs;
    And hers shall be the breathing balm,
    And hers the silence and the calm
    Of mute insensate things.

    "The floating clouds their state shall lend


    To her; for her the willow bend;
    Nor shall she fail to see
    Even in the motions of the Storm
    Grace that shall mould the Maiden's form
    By silent sympathy.

    "The stars of midnight shall be dear


    To her; and she shall lean her ear
    In many a secret place
    Where rivulets dance their wayward round,
    And beauty born of murmuring sound
    Shall pass into her face.

    "And vital feelings of delight


    Shall rear her form to stately height,
    Her virgin bosom swell;
    Such thoughts to Lucy I will give
    While she and I together live
    Here in this happy dell."

    Thus Nature spake—The work was done—


    How soon my Lucy's race was run!
    She died, and left to me
    This heath, this calm and quiet scene;
    The memory of what has been,
    And never more will be.
    Break, Break, Break
    BY A L F R E D , L O R D T E N N Y S O N

    Break, break, break,


    On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!
    And I would that my tongue could utter
    The thoughts that arise in me.

    O, well for the fisherman's boy,


    That he shouts with his sister at play!
    O, well for the sailor lad,
    That he sings in his boat on the bay!

    And the stately ships go on


    To their haven under the hill;
    But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand,
    And the sound of a voice that is still!

    Break, break, break


    At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!
    But the tender grace of a day that is dead
    Will never come back to me.
    To India my Native Land
    My country! In thy days of glory past
    A beauteous halo circled round thy brow
    and worshipped as a deity thou wast—
    Where is thy glory, where the reverence now?
    Thy eagle pinion is chained down at last,
    And grovelling in the lowly dust art thou,
    Thy minstrel hath no wreath to weave for thee
    Save the sad story of thy misery!
    Well—let me dive into the depths of time
    And bring from out the ages, that have rolled
    A few small fragments of these wrecks sublime
    Which human eye may never more behold
    And let the guerdon of my labour be,
    My fallen country! One kind wish for thee!

    by Henry Louis Vivian Derozio

    Gitanjali Poem No. 50


    by Rabindranath Tagore
    "I had gone a-begging from door to door in the village path, when
    thy golden chariot appeared in the distance like a gorgeous
    dream and I wondered who was this King of all kings!

    My hopes rose high and me thought my evil days were at an end,


    and I stood waiting for alms to be given unasked and for wealth
    scattered on all sides in the dust.
    The chariot stopped where I stood. Thy glance fell on me and
    thou camest down with a smile. I felt that the luck of my life had
    come at last. Then of a sudden thou didst hold out thy right hand
    and say `What hast thou to give to me?'

    Ah, what a kingly jest was it to open thy palm to a beggar to beg! I
    was confused and stood undecided, and then from my wallet I
    slowly took out the least little grain of corn and gave it to thee.

    But how great my surprise when at the day's end I emptied my


    bag on the floor to find a least little gram of gold among the poor
    heap. I bitterly wept and wished that I had had the heart to give
    thee my all.

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