The Purdzilla Show

I don't know what poetry is or what it's supposed to do. I imagine it has a kind of nervous effect on some people like music has on others. George Orwell (in Coming Up For Air )

Through primrose tufts, in that green bower, The periwinkle trailed its wreaths; And ’tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes. William Wordsworth

Photo by  Karsten Würth (@karsten.wuerth)  on  Unsplash The budding twigs spread out their fan, To catch the breezy air; And I must think, do all I can, That there was pleasure there.

While here I stand, not only with the sense  Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts  That in this moment there is life and food  For future years. William Wordsworth

On that best portion of a good man's life, his little, nameless, unremembered, acts of kindness and of love  (William Wordsworth).

Once again I see These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines Of sportive wood run wild: these pastoral farms, Green to the very door; and wreaths of smoke Sent up, in silence, from among the trees! With some uncertain notice, as might seem Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods, Or of some Hermit's cave, where by his fire The Hermit sits alone.  William Wordsworth