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Poems Every Child Should Know

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<h3>The Choir Invisible.</h3> <div class="pre_poem">"The Choir Invisible" (by George Eliot, 1819-80) is a fitting exposition in poetry of this "Shakespeare of prose." </div> <table class="poem" summary="poem"><tr><td><div class="stanza"> O, may I join the choir invisible Of those immortal dead who live again In minds made better by their presence; live In pulses stirred to generosity, In deeds of daring rectitude, in scorn Of miserable aims that end with self, In thoughts sublime that pierce the night like stars, And with their mild persistence urge men's minds To vaster issues. May I reach That purest heaven,—be to other souls The cup of strength in some great agony, Enkindle generous ardour, feed pure love, Beget the smiles that have no cruelty, Be the sweet presence of good diffused, And in diffusion ever more intense! So shall I join the choir invisible, Whose music is the gladness of the world. </div> </td></tr></table> George Eliot. <h3>The World Is Too Much With Us.</h3> <div class="pre_poem">"The World Is Too Much With Us," by Wordsworth (1770-1850), is perhaps the greatest sonnet ever written. It is true that "the eyes of the soul" are blinded by a surfeit of worldly "goods." "I went to the Lake District" (England), said John Burroughs, "to see what kind of a country could produce a Wordsworth." Of course he found simple houses, simple people, barren moors, heather-clad mountains, wild flowers, calm lakes, plain, rugged simplicity. </div> <table class="poem" summary="poem"><tr><td><div class="stanza"> The world is too much with us; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers; Little we see in Nature that is ours. We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! This sea, that bares her bosom to the moon, The winds that will be howling at all hours, And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers— For this, for everything, we are out of tune; It moves us not. Great God! I'd rather be A pagan, suckled in a creed outworn, So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; Have sight of Proteus, rising from the sea, Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. </div> </td></tr></table> William Wordsworth. <h3>On His Blindness.</h3> <div class="pre_poem">"Sonnet on His Blindness" (by John Milton, 1608-74). This is the most stately and pathetic sonnet in existence. The soul enduring enforced idleness and loss of power without repining. Inactivity made to serve a higher end. <blockquote> "All service ranks the same with God! There is no first or last." </blockquote></div> <table class="poem" summary="poem"><tr><td><div class="stanza"> When I consider how my light is spent Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, And that one talent which is death to hide, Lodg'd with me useless, though my soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present My true account, lest He, returning, chide; Doth God exact day-labour, light denied? I fondly ask: but Patience, to prevent That murmur, soon replies, God doth not need Either man's work, or His own gifts; who best Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best; His state Is kingly; thousands at His bidding speed, And post o'er land and ocean without rest; They also serve who only stand and wait. </div> </td></tr></table> John Milton. <h3>She Was a Phantom of Delight.</h3> <div class="pre_poem">"She Was a Phantom of Delight" (by William Wordsworth, 1770-1850) is included here because it is a picture of woman as she should be, not made dainty by finery, but by fine ideals— <blockquote> "And not too good For human nature's daily food." </blockquote></div> <table class="poem" summary="poem"><tr><td><div class="stanza"> She was a Phantom of delight When first she gleamed 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> 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. </div> <div class="stanza"> 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 planned, To warn, to comfort, and command; And yet a Spirit still, and bright, With something of angelic light. </div> </td></tr></table> William Wordsworth. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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