AUTHOR COMMENT'S
One night while sleeping
I dreamt
Seeing which I began
To get impatient
I saw that
To a place I am going
Where everywhere was dark
And paths are not reaching
As I proceeded
With the confidence I gathered
A queue I saw
Where boys had assembled
Emerald-like garment
They were wearing
In every hand
A little lamp was burning
Without making any noise
To and fro they were moving
Lord alone knows
Where exactly were they going?
While in this thought
My son did I find
Standing in this set
And left behind.
He was at the back
'coz he was not quick.
The lamp in his hand
Was not getting burnt.
I said 'Dear One!
Remember me.
Leaving me behind,
Where have you come?
Restless I am
In your separation
Enjoining I am
A necklace of tears
To us you have showed
No concern at all
The wound once healed
Loyal you are not at all
When saw the children
My fret and fume
Turning his face
The reply came
If you are sad
When from you I separate
Neither for your lad
Is there any profit (in separation)!
Saying this, the child
For sometime remained quiet.
Then lamp in his hand held
He spoke thus:
Are you wondering,
What to this is happening?
Your tears flowing
Has barred it from burning.

AUTHOR COMMENT'S


One day a Spider was telling a Fly
'Everyday on this route you are passing by'
But not for once did my fortune trigger
That, towards my home you never got nearer
It matters not if from strangers you abstain
But away from friends you shouldn't remain
My home if you come
That shall be my honor!
That ladder in the front
Will reach you to your friend
When heard the fly the talk of the Spider-friend
(It said) O Sire! Play this game on the ignorant
This fly is not among the foolish ones
Who goes up your ladder and never returns
Hearing this the Spider said,
"Ah! You think a traitor I am?
A fool like you will nowhere be found.
Lord knows from where you came flying?
If you remain at my home what is wrong?
Many are the things for you to see
Although a small hut it is when from outside you see
On the doors are hanging curtains very fine
On the walls are mirrors that is full of shine
Said the fly: Fine! What you say is true but,
Your home I will come not.
O Lord! Save me from such subtle discourse
Once laid on them, then I will never arise!
When listened the Spider the talk of the Fly
It thought of a plan to bring the little one nigh
A hundred things with flattery is got done
Everyone in this world is a slave when put this crown
These things did the Spider think
And said,
'Lord has given u a high rank.'
In love I am with your face
That began when I saw you at once
Your eyes are shining like diamond
Your head with a crest has Allah adorned
This beauty, this attire, this splendor, this honor
And a resurrection it is your flight in the air
Pity arose in the fly when heard this flattery
It said 'I wish not to cause you any agony'
The habit of refusing I believe is bad
To break one's heart is in fact bad!
Saying this, it flew from its place
When it came near, the Spider jumped to lay the seize
Hungry was the Spider for many days
But now sitting at home,
The fly was flown to its place!

             
AUTHORS COMMENT'S

PERFECT WOMAN
by: William Wordsworth (1770-1850)

HE was a phantom of delight

When first she gleam'd upon my sight;

A lovely apparition, sent

To be a moment's ornament;

Her eyes as stars of twilight fair;

Like twilight's, too, her dusky hair;

But all things else about her drawn

From May-time and the cheerful dawn;

A dancing shape, an image gay,

To haunt, to startle, and waylay.

 

I saw her upon nearer view,

A Spirit, yet a Woman too!

Her household motions light and free,

And steps of virgin liberty;

A countenance in which did meet

Sweet records, promises as sweet;

A creature not too bright or good

For human nature's daily food;

For transient sorrows, simple wiles,

Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.

 

And now I see with eye serene

The very pulse of the machine;

A being breathing thoughtful breath,

A traveller between life and death;

The reason firm, the temperate will,

Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;

A perfect Woman, nobly plann'd,

To warn, to comfort, and command;

And yet a Spirit still, and bright

With something of angelic light.

On April 7, 1770, William Wordsworth was born in Cockermouth, Cumbria, England. Wordsworth's mother died when he was eight--this experience shapes much of his later work. Wordsworth attended Hawkshead Grammar School, where his love of poetry was firmly established and, it is believed, he made his first attempts at verse. While he was at Hawkshead, Wordsworth's father died leaving him and his four siblings orphans. After Hawkshead, Wordsworth studied at St. John's College in Cambridge and before his final semester, he set out on a walking tour of Europe, an experience that influenced both his poetry and his political sensibilities. While touring Europe, Wordsworth came into contact with the French Revolution. This experience as well as a subsequent period living in France, brought about Wordsworth's interest and sympathy for the life, troubles and speech of the "common man". These issues proved to be of the utmost importance to Wordsworth's work. Wordsworth's earliest poetry was published in 1793 in the collections An Evening Walk and Descriptive Sketches. While living in France, Wordsworth conceived a daughter, Caroline, out of wedlock; he left France, however, before she was born. In 1802, he returned to France with his sister on a four-week visit to meet Caroline. Later that year, he married Mary Hutchinson, a childhood friend, and they had five children together. In 1812, while living in Grasmere, they grieved the loss of two of their children, Catherine and John, who both died that year.
Equally important in the poetic life of Wordsworth was his 1795 meeting with the poet, Samuel Taylor Coleridge. It was with Coleridge that Wordsworth published the famous Lyrical Ballads in 1798. While the poems themselves are some of the most influential in Western literature, it is the preface to the second edition that remains one of the most important testaments to a poet's views on both his craft and his place in the world. In the preface Wordsworth writes on the need for "common speech" within poems and argues against the hierarchy of the period which valued epic poetry above the lyric.
Wordsworth's most famous work, The Prelude (1850), is considered by many to be the crowning achievement of English romanticism. The poem, revised numerous times, chronicles the spiritual life of the poet and marks the birth of a new genre of poetry. Although Wordsworth worked on The Prelude throughout his life, the poem was published posthumously. Wordsworth spent his final years settled at Rydal Mount in England, travelling and continuing his outdoor excursions. Devastated by the death of his daughter Dora in 1847, Wordsworth seemingly lost his will to compose poems. William Wordsworth died at Rydal Mount on April 23, 1850, leaving his wife Mary to publish The Prelude three months later.