Lines Written in Early Spring

I heard a thousand blended notes,

While in a grove I sate reclined,

In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts

Bring sad thoughts to mind.

To her fair works did Nature link

The human soul that through me ran;

And much it grieved my heart to think

What man hath made of man.

Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,

The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;

And 'tis my faith that every flower

Enjoys the air it breathes.

The birds around me hopped and played,

Their thoughts I cannot measure:--

But the least motion which they made,

It seemed a thrill of pleasure.

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.

If this belief from heaven be sent,

If such be Nature's holy plan,

Have I not reason to lament

What man has made of man?

-- William Wordsworth

Song of the Hen's Head

After the abrupt collision

with the blade, the Word,

I rest on the wood

block, my eyes

drawn back into their blue transparent

shells like mollusks;

I contemplate the Word.

while the rest of me

which was never much under

my control, which was always

inarticulate, still runs

at random through the grass, a plea

for mercy, a single

flopping breast,

muttering about life

in its thickening red voice.

Feet and hands chase it, scavengers

intent on rape:

they want its treasures,

its warm rhizomes, enticing sausages,

its yellow grapes, its flesh

caves, five pounds of sweet money,

its juice and jellied tendons.

It tries to escape,

gasping through the neck, frantic.

They are welcome to it,

I contemplate the Word,

I am dispensable and peaceful.

The word is an O,

outcry of the useless head,

pure space, empty and drastic,

the last word I said.

The word is No.

-- Margaret Atwood