Born in the south of England, Ruan Mills Burke is currently residing in France. She writes a variety of poetry pieces, articles and stories, for both adults and children.
Many of her articles and poems are specific to animal welfare organisations and campaigns. This is a subject close to her heart.
She has also been on both Southern Counties Radio and Radio Caburn UK, to read and discuss her work.
To date, Ruan has been published in a series of anthologies and was placed in the top 100 poets by the Arvon Literary Foundation, UK. She was also included in the New Poets of 2012, USA.
This could go on... but who needs so much boring background stuff...
Instead, A delicious riposte to...
"Daffoldils" by William Wordsworth (Written 1804)
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the Milky Way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced, but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A Poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
"Of Wordsworth", from The Daffodils
by William Bealby-Wright
We wondered - nay, we said out loud
'Oh happy, happy daffodils!'
Alas but we had not allowed
For him who haunts these gloomy hills
His muffler flapping in the breeze
Muttering and stumbling through the trees
Lugubrious as the sheep that pine
And sulk behind each boulder damp
He stands disconsolate for a time
Underneath his dripping gamp
While all about the raindrops fall
We wish to god he would not call
We wish to hell he'd wander on
We've never been so sorely tried
A daffodil thus gazed upon
Might well consider suicide
He stares and stares, 'How rude!' we sing
'What blank despair to us you bring'
For oft, as in this bog we lie
In vacant or in pensive mood
He'll loom upon that inward eye
Which is the curse of solitude
And then our hearts of pleasure drain
To see that dreary bard again.