Lucy: - A Song.

Thy favourite Bird is soaring still:
My Lucy, haste thee o'er the dale;
The Stream's let loose, and from the Mill
All silent comes the balmy gale;
Yet, so lightly on its way,
Seems to whisper 'Holiday.'

The pathway flowers that bending meet
And give the Meads their yellow hue,
The May-bush and the Meadow-sweet
Reserve their fragrance all for you.
Why then, Lucy, why delay?
Let us share the Holiday.

Since there thy smiles, my charming Maid,
Are with unfeigned rapture seen,
To Beauty be the homage paid;
Come, claim the triumph of the Green.
Here's my hand, come, come away;
Share the merry Holiday.

A promise too my Lucy made,
(And shall my heart its claim resign?)
That ere May-flowers again should fade,
Her heart and hand should both be mine.
Hark 'ye, Lucy, this is May;
Love shall crown our Holiday.

Robert Bloomfield

Robert Bloomfield was an English poet noted for his rural and pastoral themes. Born on December 3, 1766, in Essex, he worked initially as a shoemaker before his verse brought him to public attention. His most famous work, "The Farmer's Boy," published in 1800, depicts the countryside and agricultural life with great sensitivity. Bloomfield faced financial difficulties despite his success and died on August 19, 1823. His works are considered significant contributions to English pastoral poetry.

Robert Bloomfield

The Fakenham Ghost. A Ballad.

Robert Bloomfield, Simple Poetry

Abner And The Widow Jones, - A Familiar Ballad.

Robert Bloomfield, Simple Poetry

The Woodland Halló.

Robert Bloomfield, Simple Poetry

Mary's Evening Sigh

Robert Bloomfield, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

Lucy.

Thanks for your stanzas, Lucy,
    My sister dear in song!
How many pleasant fancies
    With these sweet numbers throng,
Which, like spring's tuneful brooklets,
    Trip merrily along.

Sometimes, my sportive Lucy,
    Your words will whirl around,
Like foam-beads on the water,
    Or rose-leaves on the ground,
Or waltzers in the ball-room,
    To music's airy sound.

There is, my gentle Lucy,
    In all you say or do,
A bright poetic impulse,
    Original and true,
Which Art can not acquire,
    And Nature gave to you.

The olden fable, Lucy,
    My muse to you would bring:
The bird that can but will not,
    Should be compelled to sing!
The story and its moral
    To modern memories cling.

Awake t...

George Pope Morris

Lucy IV

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 s...

William Wordsworth

A Pastoral.

Surely Lucy love returns,
Though her meaning's not reveal'd;
Surely love her bosom burns,
Which her coyness keeps conceal'd:
Else what means that flushing cheek,
When with her I chance to be?
And those looks, that almost speak
A secret warmth of love for me?

Would she, where she valued not,
Give such proofs of sweet esteem?
Think what flowers for me she's got--
What can this but fondness seem?
When, to try their pleasing powers,
Swains for her cull every grove,--
When she takes my meaner flowers,
What can guide the choice but love?

Was not love seen yesternight,
When two sheep had rambled out?
Who but Lucy set them right?
The token told, without a doubt.
When others stare, she turns and frowns;
When I but glance, a smile I ...

John Clare

O Come To The Meadows.

O come to the meadows! I'll show you where
    Primrose and violet blow,
And the hawthorn spreads its blossoms fair,
    White as the driven snow.
I'll show you where the daisies dot
    With silver stars the lea,
The orchis, and forget-me-not,
    The flower of memory!

The gold-cup and the meadow-sweet,
    That love the river's side,
The reed that bows the wave to meet,
    And sighs above the tide.
The stately flag that gaily rears
    Aloft its yellow crest,
The lily in whose cup the tears
    Of morn delight to rest.

The first in Nature's dainty wreath,
    We'll cull the brier-rose,
The crowfoot and the purple heath,
    And pink that sweetly blows.
The hare-bell with its airy flowers
    Shall deck my Laura's breast,...

Susanna Moodie

The Green Linnet

Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed
Their snow-white blossoms on my head,
With brightest sunshine round me spread
Of springs unclouded weather,
In this sequestered nook how sweet
To sit upon my orchard-seat!
And birds and flowers once more to greet,
My last years friends together.

One have I marked, the happiest guest
In all this covert of the blest:
Hail to Thee, far above the rest
In joy of voice and pinion!
Thou, Linnet! in thy green array,
Presiding Spirit here to-day,
Dost lead the revels of the May;
And this is thy dominion.

While birds, and butterflies, and flowers,
Make all one band of paramours,
Thou, ranging up and down the bowers,
Art sole in thy employment:
A Life, a Presence like the Air,
Scattering thy...

William Wordsworth

"Lucy" - For Her Golden Wedding, October 18, 1875

"Lucy." - The old familiar name
Is now, as always, pleasant,
Its liquid melody the same
Alike in past or present;
Let others call you what they will,
I know you'll let me use it;
To me your name is Lucy still,
I cannot bear to lose it.

What visions of the past return
With Lucy's image blended!
What memories from the silent urn
Of gentle lives long ended!
What dreams of childhood's fleeting morn,
What starry aspirations,
That filled the misty days unborn
With fancy's coruscations!

Ah, Lucy, life has swiftly sped
From April to November;
The summer blossoms all are shed
That you and I remember;
But while the vanished years we share
With mingling recollections,
How all their shadowy features wear
The hue of old affect...

Oliver Wendell Holmes