Poetry and Poetics Final

"The Walrus and the Carpenter," - Lewis Carroll

"The sun was shining on the sea, Shining with all his might: He did his very best to make The billows smooth and bright — And this was odd, because it was The middle of the night. The moon was shining sulkily, Because she thought the sun Had got no business to be there After the day was done — "It's very rude of him," she said, "To come and spoil the fun." The sea was wet as wet could be, The sands were dry as dry. You could not see a cloud, because No cloud was in the sky: No birds were flying overhead — There were no birds to fly. The Walrus and the Carpenter Were walking close at hand; They wept like anything to see Such quantities of sand: If this were only cleared away,' They said, it would be grand!' If seven maids with seven mops Swept it for half a year, Do you suppose,' the Walrus said, That they could get it clear?' I doubt it,' said the Carpenter, And shed a bitter tear. O Oysters, come and walk with us!' The Walrus did beseech. A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk, Along the briny beach: We cannot do with more than four, To give a hand to each.' The eldest Oyster looked at him, But never a word he said: The eldest Oyster winked his eye, And shook his heavy head — Meaning to say he did not choose To leave the oyster-bed. But four young Oysters hurried up, All eager for the treat: Their coats were brushed, their faces washed, Their shoes were clean and neat — And this was odd, because, you know, They hadn't any feet. Four other Oysters followed them, And yet another four; And thick and fast they came at last, And more, and more, and more — All hopping through the frothy waves, And scrambling to the shore. The Walrus and the Carpenter Walked on a mile or so, And then they rested on a rock Conveniently low: And all the little Oysters stood And waited in a row. The time has come,' the Walrus said, To talk of many things: Of shoes — and ships — and sealing-wax — Of cabbages — and kings — And why the sea is boiling hot — And whether pigs have wings.' But wait a bit,' the Oysters cried, Before we have our chat; For some of us are out of breath, And all of us are fat!' No hurry!' said the Carpenter. They thanked him much for that. A loaf of bread,' the Walrus said, Is what we chiefly need: Pepper and vinegar besides Are very good indeed — Now if you're ready, Oysters dear, We can begin to feed.' But not on us!' the Oysters cried, Turning a little blue. After such kindness, that would be A dismal thing to do!' The night is fine,' the Walrus said. Do you admire the view? It was so kind of you to come! And you are very nice!' The Carpenter said nothing but Cut us another slice: I wish you were not quite so deaf — I've had to ask you twice!' It seems a shame,' the Walrus said, To play them such a trick, After we've brought them out so far, And made them trot so quick!' The Carpenter said nothing but The butter's spread too thick!' I weep for you,' the Walrus said: I deeply sympathize.' With sobs and tears he sorted out Those of the largest size, Holding his pocket-handkerchief Before his streaming eyes. O Oysters,' said the Carpenter, You've had a pleasant run! Shall we be trotting home again?' But answer came there none — And this was scarcely odd, because They'd eaten every one."

Amy Clampitt, "Beethoven, Opus 111,"

"There are epochs... when mankind, not content with the present, longing for time's deeper layers, like the plowman, thirsts for the virgin soil of time.Osip Mandelstam -Or, conversely, hungersfor the levitations of the concert hall:the hands like rafts of puttiout of a region where the dolorous starsare fixed in glassy cerements of Art;the ancien regime's diaphanous plashathwart the mounting throb of hobnails—shod squadrons of vibrationmining the air, its struck ores hardeninginto a plowshare, a downward wanderingdisrupting every formal symmetry:from the supine harp-case, the strung-foottendons under the mahogany, the bulldozerin the bass unearths a Piranesiancatacomb: Beethoven ventilating,with a sound he cannot hear, the cave-inof recurring rage.In the tornado countryof mid-America, my fathermight have been his twin—a farmerhacking at sourdock, at the strangle-roots of thistles and wild morning glories,setting out rashly, one October,to rid the fencerows of poison ivy:livid seed-globs turretedin trinities of glitter, ripewith the malefic glee no farmer doubtslives deep down in things. My fatherwas naïve enough—by naturerevolutionary, though he'd havedisowned the label—to suppose he mightin some way, minor but radical, disruptthe givens of existence: sethis neighbors' thinking straight, undothe stranglehold of reasons nationssend their boys off to war. That fall,after the oily fireworks had cooled downto trellises of hairy wicks,he dug them up, rootstocks and all,and burned them. Do-gooder!The well-meant holocaust becamea mist of venom, sowing itself alongthe sculptured hollows of his overalls,braceleting wrists and collarbone—a mesh of blisters spreading to a shirtworn like a curse. For weekshe writhed inside it. Awful.High artwith a stiff neck: an upright Steinwaybought in Chicago; a chromo of Hobbematree-avenue, or of Millet's imagined peasant,the lark she listens to invisible, perhapsirrelevant: harpstrings and fripperies of aircongealed into an object nailed against the wall,its sole ironic function (if it has any)to demonstrate that one, though he maygrunt and sweat at work, is not a clod.Beethoven might declare the airhis domicile, the winds kin, the tornadoa kind of second cousin; here,his labor merely shimmers—a deracinatedalbum leaf, a bagatelle, the "Moonlight"rendered with a dying fall (the chordssubside, disintegrate, regroupin climbing sequences con brio) ; there'sno dwelling on the sweet past here,there being no past to speak ofother than the setbacks: typhoidin the wells, half the first settlersdead of it before the year was out;diphtheria and scarlet feverevery winter; drought, the Depression,a mortgage on the mortgage. High artas a susurrus, the silk and perfumeof unsullied hands. Those hands!—driving the impressionable wild with anguishfor another life entirely: the Lyceum circuit,the doomed diving bell of Art.Beethovenin his workroom: ear trumpet,conversation book and pencil, candlestick,broken crockery, the Graf pianowrecked by repeated efforts to hear himself—out of a humdrum squalor the levitations,the shakes and triplets, the Adagiomolto semplice e cantabile, the Ariettaa disintegrating surf of blossomopening along the keyboard, along the fencerowsthe astonishment of sweetness. My father,driving somewhere in Kansas or Colorado,in dustbowl country, stopped the carto dig up the roots of a flowerhe'd never seen before—a kindof prickly poppy most likely, its luminousnesswounding the blank plains like desire.He mentioned in a letter the disappointmentof his having hoped it might transplant—an episode that brings me near tears,still, as even his dying does not—that awful dying, months-long, hunkered,irascible. From a clod no plowsharecould deliver, a groan for someone(because he didn't want to lookat anything) to take away the flowers,a bawling as of slaughterhouses, slogansof general uprising: Freiheit!Beethoven, shut up with the four wallsof his deafness, rehearsing the unhearablesemplice e cantabile, somehow reconstitutingthe blister shirt of the intolerableinto these shakes and triplets, a hurryinginto flowering along the fencerows: dying,for my father, came to be like thatfinally—in its messages the levitationof serenity, as though the spirit mightaspire, in its last act,to walk on air.

"John Ashbery, "Self-Portrait in a Convex Mirror,"

#198 on top 500 poets Poet's Page Poems Quotes Comments Stats E-Books Biography Poems by John Ashbery : 36 / 53« prev. poemnext poem » Self-Portrait In A Convex Mirror - Poem by John Ashbery Autoplay next video As Parmigianino did it, the right handBigger than the head, thrust at the viewerAnd swerving easily away, as though to protectWhat it advertises. A few leaded panes, old beams,Fur, pleated muslin, a coral ring run togetherIn a movement supporting the face, which swimsToward and away like the handExcept that it is in repose. It is what isSequestered. Vasari says, "Francesco one day set himselfTo take his own portrait, looking at himself from that purposeIn a convex mirror, such as is used by barbers . . .He accordingly caused a ball of wood to be madeBy a turner, and having divided it in half andBrought it to the size of the mirror, he set himselfWith great art to copy all that he saw in the glass,"Chiefly his reflection, of which the portraitIs the reflection, of which the portraitIs the reflection once removed.The glass chose to reflect only what he sawWhich was enough for his purpose: his imageGlazed, embalmed, projected at a 180-degree angle.The time of day or the density of the lightAdhering to the face keeps itLively and intact in a recurring waveOf arrival. The soul establishes itself.But how far can it swim out through the eyesAnd still return safely to its nest? The surfaceOf the mirror being convex, the distance increasesSignificantly; that is, enough to make the pointThat the soul is a captive, treated humanely, keptIn suspension, unable to advance much fartherThan your look as it intercepts the picture.Pope Clement and his court were "stupefied"By it, according to Vasari, and promised a commissionThat never materialized. The soul has to stay where it is,Even though restless, hearing raindrops at the pane,The sighing of autumn leaves thrashed by the wind,Longing to be free, outside, but it must stayPosing in this place. It must moveAs little as possible. This is what the portrait says.But there is in that gaze a combinationOf tenderness, amusement and regret, so powerfulIn its restraint that one cannot look for long.The secret is too plain. The pity of it smarts,Makes hot tears spurt: that the soul is not a soul,Has no secret, is small, and it fitsIts hollow perfectly: its room, our moment of attention.That is the tune but there are no words.The words are only speculation(From the Latin speculum, mirror):They seek and cannot find the meaning of the music.We see only postures of the dream,Riders of the motion that swings the faceInto view under evening skies, with noFalse disarray as proof of authenticity.But it is life englobed.One would like to stick one's handOut of the globe, but its dimension,What carries it, will not allow it.No doubt it is this, not the reflexTo hide something, which makes the hand loom largeAs it retreats slightly. There is no wayTo build it flat like a section of wall:It must join the segment of a circle,Roving back to the body of which it seemsSo unlikely a part, to fence in and shore up the faceOn which the effort of this condition readsLike a pinpoint of a smile, a sparkOr star one is not sure of having seenAs darkness resumes. A perverse light whoseImperative of subtlety dooms in advance itsConceit to light up: unimportant but meant.Francesco, your hand is big enoughTo wreck the sphere, and too big,One would think, to weave delicate meshesThat only argue its further detention.(Big, but not coarse, merely on another scale,Like a dozing whale on the sea bottomIn relation to the tiny, self-important shipOn the surface.) But your eyes proclaimThat everything is surface. The surface is what's thereAnd nothing can exist except what's there.There are no recesses in the room, only alcoves,And the window doesn't matter much, or thatSliver of window or mirror on the right, evenAs a gauge of the weather, which in French isLe temps, the word for time, and whichFollows a course wherein changes are merelyFeatures of the whole. The whole is stable withinInstability, a globe like ours, restingOn a pedestal of vacuum, a ping-pong ballSecure on its jet of water.And just as there are no words for the surface, that is,No words to say what it really is, that it is notSuperficial but a visible core, then there isNo way out of the problem of pathos vs. experience.You will stay on, restive, serene inYour gesture which is neither embrace nor warningBut which holds something of both in pureAffirmation that doesn't affirm anything.The balloon pops, the attentionTurns dully away. CloudsIn the puddle stir up into sawtoothed fragments.I think of the friendsWho came to see me, of what yesterdayWas like. A peculiar slantOf memory that intrudes on the dreaming modelIn the silence of the studio as he considersLifting the pencil to the self-portrait.How many people came and stayed a certain time,Uttered light or dark speech that became part of youLike light behind windblown fog and sand,Filtered and influenced by it, until no partRemains that is surely you. Those voices in the duskHave told you all and still the tale goes onIn the form of memories deposited in irregularClumps of crystals. Whose curved hand controls,Francesco, the turning seasons and the thoughtsThat peel off and fly away at breathless speedsLike the last stubborn leaves rippedFrom wet branches? I see in this only the chaosOf your round mirror which organizes everythingAround the polestar of your eyes which are empty,Know nothing, dream but reveal nothing.I feel the carousel starting slowlyAnd going faster and faster: desk, papers, books,Photographs of friends, the window and the treesMerging in one neutral band that surroundsMe on all sides, everywhere I look.And I cannot explain the action of leveling,Why it should all boil down to oneUniform substance, a magma of interiors.My guide in these matters is your self,Firm, oblique, accepting everything with the sameWraith of a smile, and as time speeds up so that it is soonMuch later, I can know only the straight way out,The distance between us. Long agoThe strewn evidence meant something,The small accidents and pleasuresOf the day as it moved gracelessly on,A housewife doing chores. Impossible nowTo restore those properties in the silver blur that isThe record of what you accomplished by sitting down"With great art to copy all that you saw in the glass"So as to perfect and rule out the extraneousForever. In the circle of your intentions certain sparsRemain that perpetuate the enchantment of self with self:Eyebeams, muslin, coral. It doesn't matterBecause these are things as they are todayBefore one's shadow ever grewOut of the field into thoughts of tomorrow.Tomorrow is easy, but today is uncharted,Desolate, reluctant as any landscapeTo yield what are laws of perspectiveAfter all only to the painter's deepMistrust, a weak instrument thoughNecessary. Of course some thingsAre possible, it knows, but it doesn't knowWhich ones. Some day we will tryTo do as many things as are possibleAnd perhaps we shall succeed at a handfulOf them, but this will not have anythingTo do with what is promised today, ourLandscape sweeping out from us to disappearOn the horizon. Today enough of a cover burnishesTo keep the supposition of promises togetherIn one piece of surface, letting one rambleBack home from them so that theseEven stronger possibilities can remainWhole without being tested. ActuallyThe skin of the bubble-chamber's as tough asReptile eggs; everything gets "programmed" thereIn due course: more keeps getting includedWithout adding to the sum, and just as oneGets accustomed to a noise thatKept one awake but now no longer does,So the room contains this flow like an hourglassWithout varying in climate or quality(Except perhaps to brighten bleakly and almostInvisibly, in a focus sharpening toward death--moreOf this later). What should be the vacuum of a dreamBecomes continually replete as the source of dreamsIs being tapped so that this one dreamMay wax, flourish like a cabbage rose,Defying sumptuary laws, leaving usTo awake and try to begin living in whatHas now become a slum. Sydney Freedberg in hisParmigianino says of it: "Realism in this portraitNo longer produces and objective truth, but a bizarria . . . .However its distortion does not createA feeling of disharmony . . . . The forms retainA strong measure of ideal beauty," becauseFed by our dreams, so inconsequential until one dayWe notice the hole they left. Now their importanceIf not their meaning is plain. They were to nourishA dream which includes them all, as they areFinally reversed in the accumulating mirror.They seemed strange because we couldn't actually see them.And we realize this only at a point where they lapseLike a wave breaking on a rock, giving upIts shape in a gesture which expresses that shape.The forms retain a strong measure of ideal beautyAs they forage in secret on our idea of distortion.Why be unhappy with this arrangement, sinceDreams prolong us as they are absorbed?Something like living occurs, a movementOut of the dream into its codification.As I start to forget itIt presents its stereotype againBut it is an unfamiliar stereotype, the faceRiding at anchor, issued from hazards, soonTo accost others, "rather angel than man" (Vasari).Perhaps an angel looks like everythingWe have forgotten, I mean forgottenThings that don't seem familiar whenWe meet them again, lost beyond telling,Which were ours once. This would be the pointOf invading the privacy of this man who"Dabbled in alchemy, but whose wishHere was not to examine the subtleties of artIn a detached, scientific spirit: he wished through themTo impart the sense of novelty and amazement to the spectator"(Freedberg). Later portraits such as the Uffizi"Gentleman," the Borghese "Young Prelate" andThe Naples "Antea" issue from ManneristTensions, but here, as Freedberg points out,The surprise, the tension are in the conceptRather than its realization.The consonance of the High RenaissanceIs present, though distorted by the mirror.What is novel is the extreme care in renderingThe velleities of the rounded reflecting surface(It is the first mirror portrait),So that you could be fooled for a momentBefore you realize the reflectionIsn't yours. You feel then like one of thoseHoffmann characters who have been deprivedOf a reflection, except that the whole of meIs seen to be supplanted by the strictOtherness of the painter in hisOther room. We have surprised himAt work, but no, he has surprised usAs he works. The picture is almost finished,The surprise almost over, as when one looks out,Startled by a snowfall which even now isEnding in specks and sparkles of snow.It happened while you were inside, asleep,And there is no reason why you should haveBeen awake for it, except that the dayIs ending and it will be hard for youTo get to sleep tonight, at least until late.The shadow of the city injects its ownUrgency: Rome where FrancescoWas at work during the Sack: his inventionsAmazed the soldiers who burst in on him;They decided to spare his life, but he left soon after;Vienna where the painting is today, whereI saw it with Pierre in the summer of 1959; New YorkWhere I am now, which is a logarithmOf other cities. Our landscapeIs alive with filiations, shuttlings;Business is carried on by look, gesture,Hearsay. It is another life to the city,The backing of the looking glass of theUnidentified but precisely sketched studio. It wantsTo siphon off the life of the studio, deflateIts mapped space to enactments, island it.That operation has been temporarily stalledBut something new is on the way, a new preciosityIn the wind. Can you stand it,Francesco? Are you strong enough for it?This wind brings what it knows not, isSelf--propelled, blind, has no notionOf itself. It is inertia that onceAcknowledged saps all activity, secret or public:Whispers of the word that can't be understoodBut can be felt, a chill, a blightMoving outward along the capes and peninsulasOf your nervures and so to the archipelagoesAnd to the bathed, aired secrecy of the open sea.This is its negative side. Its positive side isMaking you notice life and the stressesThat only seemed to go away, but now,As this new mode questions, are seen to beHastening out of style. If they are to become classicsThey must decide which side they are on.Their reticence has underminedThe urban scenery, made its ambiguitiesLook willful and tired, the games of an old man.What we need now is this unlikelyChallenger pounding on the gates of an amazedCastle. Your argument, Francesco,Had begun to grow stale as no answerOr answers were forthcoming. If it dissolves nowInto dust, that only means its time had comeSome time ago, but look now, and listen:It may be that another life is stocked thereIn recesses no one knew of; that it,Not we, are the change; that we are in fact itIf we could get back to it, relive some of the wayIt looked, turn our faces to the globe as it setsAnd still be coming out all right:Nerves normal, breath normal. Since it is a metaphorMade to include us, we are a part of it andCan live in it as in fact we have done,Only leaving our minds bare for questioningWe now see will not take place at randomBut in an orderly way that means to menaceNobody--the normal way things are done,Like the concentric growing up of daysAround a life: correctly, if you think about it.A breeze like the turning of a pageBrings back your face: the momentTakes such a big bite out of the hazeOf pleasant intuition it comes after.The locking into place is "death itself,"As Berg said of a phrase in Mahler's Ninth;Or, to quote Imogen in Cymbeline, "There cannotBe a pinch in death more sharp than this," for,Though only exercise or tactic, it carriesThe momentum of a conviction that had been building.Mere forgetfulness cannot remove itNor wishing bring it back, as long as it remainsThe white precipitate of its dreamIn the climate of sighs flung across our world,A cloth over a birdcage. But it is certain thatWhat is beautiful seems so only in relation to a specificLife, experienced or not, channeled into some formSteeped in the nostalgia of a collective past.The light sinks today with an enthusiasmI have known elsewhere, and known whyIt seemed meaningful, that others felt this wayYears ago. I go on consultingThis mirror that is no longer mineFor as much brisk vacancy as is to beMy portion this time. And the vase is always fullBecause there is only just so much roomAnd it accommodates everything. The sampleOne sees is not to be taken asMerely that, but as everything as itMay be imagined outside time--not as a gestureBut as all, in the refined, assimilable state.But what is this universe the porch ofAs it veers in and out, back and forth,Refusing to surround us and still the onlyThing we can see? Love onceTipped the scales but now is shadowed, invisible,Though mysteriously present, around somewhere.But we know it cannot be sandwichedBetween two adjacent moments, that its windingsLead nowhere except to further tributariesAnd that these empty themselves into a vagueSense of something that can never be knownEven though it seems likely that each of usKnows what it is and is capable ofCommunicating it to the other. But the lookSome wear as a sign makes one want toPush forward ignoring the apparentNaÏveté of the attempt, not caringThat no one is listening, since the lightHas been lit once and for all in their eyesAnd is present, unimpaired, a permanent anomaly,Awake and silent. On the surface of itThere seems no special reason why that lightShould be focused by love, or whyThe city falling with its beautiful suburbsInto space always less clear, less defined,Should read as the support of its progress,The easel upon which the drama unfoldedTo its own satisfaction and to the endOf our dreaming, as we had never imaginedIt would end, in worn daylight with the paintedPromise showing through as a gage, a bond.This nondescript, never-to-be defined daytime isThe secret of where it takes placeAnd we can no longer return to the variousConflicting statements gathered, lapses of memoryOf the principal witnesses. All we knowIs that we are a little early, thatToday has that special, lapidaryTodayness that the sunlight reproducesFaithfully in casting twig-shadows on blitheSidewalks. No previous day would have been like this.I used to think they were all alike,That the present always looked the same to everybodyBut this confusion drains away as oneIs always cresting into one's present.Yet the "poetic," straw-colored spaceOf the long corridor that leads back to the painting,Its darkening opposite--is thisSome figment of "art," not to be imaginedAs real, let alone special? Hasn't it too its lairIn the present we are always escaping fromAnd falling back into, as the waterwheel of daysPursues its uneventful, even serene course?I think it is trying to say it is todayAnd we must get out of it even as the publicIs pushing through the museum now so as toBe out by closing time. You can't live there.The gray glaze of the past attacks all know-how:Secrets of wash and finish that took a lifetimeTo learn and are reduced to the status ofBlack-and-white illustrations in a book where colorplatesAre rare. That is, all timeReduces to no special time. No oneAlludes to the change; to do so mightInvolve calling attention to oneselfWhich would augment the dread of not getting outBefore having seen the whole collection(Except for the sculptures in the basement:They are where they belong).Our time gets to be veiled, compromisedBy the portrait's will to endure. It hints atOur own, which we were hoping to keep hidden.We don't need paintings orDoggerel written by mature poets whenThe explosion is so precise, so fine.Is there any point even in acknowledgingThe existence of all that? Does itExist? Certainly the leisure toIndulge stately pastimes doesn't,Any more. Today has no margins, the event arrivesFlush with its edges, is of the same substance,Indistinguishable. "Play" is something else;It exists, in a society specificallyOrganized as a demonstration of itself.There is no other way, and those assholesWho would confuse everything with their mirror gamesWhich seem to multiply stakes and possibilities, orAt least confuse issues by means of an investingAura that would corrode the architectureOf the whole in a haze of suppressed mockery,Are beside the point. They are out of the game,Which doesn't exist until they are out of it.It seems like a very hostile universeBut as the principle of each individual thing isHostile to, exists at the expense of all the othersAs philosophers have often pointed out, at leastThis thing, the mute, undivided present,Has the justification of logic, whichIn this instance isn't a bad thingOr wouldn't be, if the way of tellingDidn't somehow intrude, twisting the end resultInto a caricature of itself. This alwaysHappens, as in the game whereA whispered phrase passed around the roomEnds up as something completely different.It is the principle that makes works of art so unlikeWhat the artist intended. Often he findsHe has omitted the thing he started out to sayIn the first place. Seduced by flowers,Explicit pleasures, he blames himself (thoughSecretly satisfied with the result), imaginingHe had a say in the matter and exercisedAn option of which he was hardly conscious,Unaware that necessity circumvents such resolutions.So as to create something newFor itself, that there is no other way,That the history of creation proceeds according toStringent laws, and that thingsDo get done in this way, but never the thingsWe set out to accomplish and wanted so desperatelyTo see come into being. ParmigianinoMust have realized this as he worked at hisLife-obstructing task. One is forced to readThe perfectly plausible accomplishment of a purposeInto the smooth, perhaps even bland (but soEnigmatic) finish. Is there anythingTo be serious about beyond this othernessThat gets included in the most ordinaryForms of daily activity, changing everythingSlightly and profoundly, and tearing the matterOf creation, any creation, not just artistic creationOut of our hands, to install it on some monstrous, nearPeak, too close to ignore, too farFor one to intervene? This otherness, this"Not-being-us" is all there is to look atIn the mirror, though no one can sayHow it came to be this way. A shipFlying unknown colors has entered the harbor.You are allowing extraneous mattersTo break up your day, cloud the focusOf the crystal ball. Its scene drifts awayLike vapor scattered on the wind. The fertileThought-associations that until now cameSo easily, appear no more, or rarely. TheirColorings are less intense, washed outBy autumn rains and winds, spoiled, muddied,Given back to you because they are worthless.Yet we are such creatures of habit that theirImplications are still around en permanence, confusingIssues. To be serious only about sexIs perhaps one way, but the sands are hissingAs they approach the beginning of the big slideInto what happened. This pastIs now here: the painter'sReflected face, in which we linger, receivingDreams and inspirations on an unassignedFrequency, but the hues have turned metallic,The curves and edges are not so rich. Each personHas one big theory to explain the universeBut it doesn't tell the whole storyAnd in the end it is what is outside himThat matters, to him and especially to usWho have been given no help whateverIn decoding our own man-size quotient and must relyOn second-hand knowledge. Yet I knowThat no one else's taste is going to beAny help, and might as well be ignored.Once it seemed so perfect--gloss on the fineFreckled skin, lips moistened as though about to partReleasing speech, and the familiar lookOf clothes and furniture that one forgets.This could have been our paradise: exoticRefuge within an exhausted world, but that wasn'tIn the cards, because it couldn't have beenThe point. Aping naturalness may be the first stepToward achieving an inner calmBut it is the first step only, and oftenRemains a frozen gesture of welcome etchedOn the air materializing behind it,A convention. And we have reallyNo time for these, except to use themFor kindling. The sooner they are burnt upThe better for the roles we have to play.Therefore I beseech you, withdraw that hand,Offer it no longer as shield or greeting,The shield of a greeting, Francesco:There is room for one bullet in the chamber:Our looking through the wrong endOf the telescope as you fall back at a speedFaster than that of light to flatten ultimatelyAmong the features of the room, an invitationNever mailed, the "it was all a dream"Syndrome, though the "all" tells terselyEnough how it wasn't. Its existenceWas real, though troubled, and the acheOf this waking dream can never drown outThe diagram still sketched on the wind,Chosen, meant for me and materializedIn the disguising radiance of my room.We have seen the city; it is the gibbousMirrored eye of an insect. All things happenOn its balcony and are resumed within,But the action is the cold, syrupy flowOf a pageant. One feels too confined,Sifting the April sunlight for clues,In the mere stillness of the ease of itsParameter. The hand holds no chalkAnd each part of the whole falls offAnd cannot know it knew, exceptHere and there, in cold pocketsOf remembrance, whispers out of time

"Lewis Carroll, "Jabberwocky,"

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe: All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe. "Beware the Jabberwock, my son! The jaws that bite, the claws that catch! Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun The frumious Bandersnatch!" He took his vorpal sword in hand; Long time the manxome foe he sought— So rested he by the Tumtum tree And stood awhile in thought. And, as in uffish thought he stood, The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame, Came whiffling through the tulgey wood, And burbled as it came! One, two! One, two! And through and through The vorpal blade went snicker-snack! He left it dead, and with its head He went galumphing back. "And hast thou slain the Jabberwock? Come to my arms, my beamish boy! O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!" He chortled in his joy. 'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe: All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe.

Ben Jonson, "To the Memory...Mr. William Shakespeare,"

. . .

Walt Whitman, "When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd,"

1 When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom'd, And the great star early droop'd in the western sky in the night, I mourn'd, and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring. Ever-returning spring, trinity sure to me you bring, Lilac blooming perennial and drooping star in the west, And thought of him I love. 2 O powerful western fallen star! O shades of night—O moody, tearful night! O great star disappear'd—O the black murk that hides the star! O cruel hands that hold me powerless—O helpless soul of me! O harsh surrounding cloud that will not free my soul. 3 In the dooryard fronting an old farm-house near the white-wash'd palings, Stands the lilac-bush tall-growing with heart-shaped leaves of rich green, With many a pointed blossom rising delicate, with the perfume strong I love, With every leaf a miracle—and from this bush in the dooryard, With delicate-color'd blossoms and heart-shaped leaves of rich green, A sprig with its flower I break. 4 In the swamp in secluded recesses, A shy and hidden bird is warbling a song. Solitary the thrush, The hermit withdrawn to himself, avoiding the settlements, Sings by himself a song. Song of the bleeding throat, Death's outlet song of life, (for well dear brother I know, If thou wast not granted to sing thou would'st surely die.) 5 Over the breast of the spring, the land, amid cities, Amid lanes and through old woods, where lately the violets peep'd from the ground, spotting the gray debris, Amid the grass in the fields each side of the lanes, passing the endless grass, Passing the yellow-spear'd wheat, every grain from its shroud in the dark-brown fields uprisen, Passing the apple-tree blows of white and pink in the orchards, Carrying a corpse to where it shall rest in the grave, Night and day journeys a coffin. 6 Coffin that passes through lanes and streets, Through day and night with the great cloud darkening the land, With the pomp of the inloop'd flags with the cities draped in black, With the show of the States themselves as of crape-veil'd women standing, With processions long and winding and the flambeaus of the night, With the countless torches lit, with the silent sea of faces and the unbared heads, With the waiting depot, the arriving coffin, and the sombre faces, With dirges through the night, with the thousand voices rising strong and solemn, With all the mournful voices of the dirges pour'd around the coffin, The dim-lit churches and the shuddering organs—where amid these you journey, With the tolling tolling bells' perpetual clang, Here, coffin that slowly passes, I give you my sprig of lilac. 7 (Nor for you, for one alone, Blossoms and branches green to coffins all I bring, For fresh as the morning, thus would I chant a song for you O sane and sacred death. All over bouquets of roses, O death, I cover you over with roses and early lilies, But mostly and now the lilac that blooms the first, Copious I break, I break the sprigs from the bushes, With loaded arms I come, pouring for you, For you and the coffins all of you O death.) 8 O western orb sailing the heaven, Now I know what you must have meant as a month since I walk'd, As I walk'd in silence the transparent shadowy night, As I saw you had something to tell as you bent to me night after night, As you droop'd from the sky low down as if to my side, (while the other stars all look'd on,) As we wander'd together the solemn night, (for something I know not what kept me from sleep,) As the night advanced, and I saw on the rim of the west how full you were of woe, As I stood on the rising ground in the breeze in the cool transparent night, As I watch'd where you pass'd and was lost in the netherward black of the night, As my soul in its trouble dissatisfied sank, as where you sad orb, Concluded, dropt in the night, and was gone. 9 Sing on there in the swamp, O singer bashful and tender, I hear your notes, I hear your call, I hear, I come presently, I understand you, But a moment I linger, for the lustrous star has detain'd me, The star my departing comrade holds and detains me. 10 O how shall I warble myself for the dead one there I loved? And how shall I deck my song for the large sweet soul that has gone? And what shall my perfume be for the grave of him I love? Sea-winds blown from east and west, Blown from the Eastern sea and blown from the Western sea, till there on the prairies meeting, These and with these and the breath of my chant, I'll perfume the grave of him I love. 11 O what shall I hang on the chamber walls? And what shall the pictures be that I hang on the walls, To adorn the burial-house of him I love? Pictures of growing spring and farms and homes, With the Fourth-month eve at sundown, and the gray smoke lucid and bright, With floods of the yellow gold of the gorgeous, indolent, sinking sun, burning, expanding the air, With the fresh sweet herbage under foot, and the pale green leaves of the trees prolific, In the distance the flowing glaze, the breast of the river, with a wind-dapple here and there, With ranging hills on the banks, with many a line against the sky, and shadows, And the city at hand with dwellings so dense, and stacks of chimneys, And all the scenes of life and the workshops, and the workmen homeward returning. 12 Lo, body and soul—this land, My own Manhattan with spires, and the sparkling and hurrying tides, and the ships, The varied and ample land, the South and the North in the light, Ohio's shores and flashing Missouri, And ever the far-spreading prairies cover'd with grass and corn. Lo, the most excellent sun so calm and haughty, The violet and purple morn with just-felt breezes, The gentle soft-born measureless light, The miracle spreading bathing all, the fulfill'd noon, The coming eve delicious, the welcome night and the stars, Over my cities shining all, enveloping man and land. 13 Sing on, sing on you gray-brown bird, Sing from the swamps, the recesses, pour your chant from the bushes, Limitless out of the dusk, out of the cedars and pines. Sing on dearest brother, warble your reedy song, Loud human song, with voice of uttermost woe. O liquid and free and tender! O wild and loose to my soul—O wondrous singer! You only I hear—yet the star holds me, (but will soon depart,) Yet the lilac with mastering odor holds me. 14 Now while I sat in the day and look'd forth, In the close of the day with its light and the fields of spring, and the farmers preparing their crops, In the large unconscious scenery of my land with its lakes and forests, In the heavenly aerial beauty, (after the perturb'd winds and the storms,) Under the arching heavens of the afternoon swift passing, and the voices of children and women, The many-moving sea-tides, and I saw the ships how they sail'd, And the summer approaching with richness, and the fields all busy with labor, And the infinite separate houses, how they all went on, each with its meals and minutia of daily usages, And the streets how their throbbings throbb'd, and the cities pent—lo, then and there, Falling upon them all and among them all, enveloping me with the rest, Appear'd the cloud, appear'd the long black trail, And I knew death, its thought, and the sacred knowledge of death. Then with the knowledge of death as walking one side of me, And the thought of death close-walking the other side of me, And I in the middle as with companions, and as holding the hands of companions, I fled forth to the hiding receiving night that talks not, Down to the shores of the water, the path by the swamp in the dimness, To the solemn shadowy cedars and ghostly pines so still. And the singer so shy to the rest receiv'd me, The gray-brown bird I know receiv'd us comrades three, And he sang the carol of death, and a verse for him I love. From deep secluded recesses, From the fragrant cedars and the ghostly pines so still, Came the carol of the bird. And the charm of the carol rapt me, As I held as if by their hands my comrades in the night, And the voice of my spirit tallied the song of the bird. Come lovely and soothing death, Undulate round the world, serenely arriving, arriving, In the day, in the night, to all, to each, Sooner or later delicate death. Prais'd be the fathomless universe, For life and joy, and for objects and knowledge curious, And for love, sweet love—but praise! praise! praise! For the sure-enwinding arms of cool-enfolding death. Dark mother always gliding near with soft feet, Have none chanted for thee a chant of fullest welcome? Then I chant it for thee, I glorify thee above all, I bring thee a song that when thou must indeed come, come unfalteringly. Approach strong deliveress, When it is so, when thou hast taken them I joyously sing the dead, Lost in the loving floating ocean of thee, Laved in the flood of thy bliss O death. From me to thee glad serenades, Dances for thee I propose saluting thee, adornments and feastings for thee, And the sights of the open landscape and the high-spread sky are fitting, And life and the fields, and the huge and thoughtful night. The night in silence under many a star, The ocean shore and the husky whispering wave whose voice I know, And the soul turning to thee O vast and well-veil'd death, And the body gratefully nestling close to thee. Over the tree-tops I float thee a song, Over the rising and sinking waves, over the myriad fields and the prairies wide, Over the dense-pack'd cities all and the teeming wharves and ways, I float this carol with joy, with joy to thee O death. 15 To the tally of my soul, Loud and strong kept up the gray-brown bird, With pure deliberate notes spreading filling the night. Loud in the pines and cedars dim, Clear in the freshness moist and the swamp-perfume, And I with my comrades there in the night. While my sight that was bound in my eyes unclosed, As to long panoramas of visions. And I saw askant the armies, I saw as in noiseless dreams hundreds of battle-flags, Borne through the smoke of the battles and pierc'd with missiles I saw them, And carried hither and yon through the smoke, and torn and bloody, And at last but a few shreds left on the staffs, (and all in silence,) And the staffs all splinter'd and broken. I saw battle-corpses, myriads of them, And the white skeletons of young men, I saw them, I saw the debris and debris of all the slain soldiers of the war, But I saw they were not as was thought, They themselves were fully at rest, they suffer'd not, The living remain'd and suffer'd, the mother suffer'd, And the wife and the child and the musing comrade suffer'd, And the armies that remain'd suffer'd. 16 Passing the visions, passing the night, Passing, unloosing the hold of my comrades' hands, Passing the song of the hermit bird and the tallying song of my soul, Victorious song, death's outlet song, yet varying ever-altering song, As low and wailing, yet clear the notes, rising and falling, flooding the night, Sadly sinking and fainting, as warning and warning, and yet again bursting with joy, Covering the earth and filling the spread of the heaven, As that powerful psalm in the night I heard from recesses, Passing, I leave thee lilac with heart-shaped leaves, I leave thee there in the door-yard, blooming, returning with spring. I cease from my song for thee, From my gaze on thee in the west, fronting the west, communing with thee, O comrade lustrous with silver face in the night. Yet each to keep and all, retrievements out of the night, The song, the wondrous chant of the gray-brown bird, And the tallying chant, the echo arous'd in my soul, With the lustrous and drooping star with the countenance full of woe, With the holders holding my hand nearing the call of the bird, Comrades mine and I in the midst, and their memory ever to keep, for the dead I loved so well, For the sweetest, wisest soul of all my days and lands—and this for his dear sake, Lilac and star and bird twined with the chant of my soul, There in the fragrant pines and the cedars dusk and dim.

"A Thousand Martyrs," - Aphra Ben

A thousand martyrs I have made, All sacrificed to my desire; A thousand beauties have betrayed, That languish in resistless fire. The untamed heart to hand I brought, And fixed the wild and wandering thought. I never vowed nor sighed in vain But both, though false, were well received. The fair are pleased to give us pain, And what they wish is soon believed. And though I talked of wounds and smart, Love's pleasures only touched my heart. Alone the glory and the spoil I always laughing bore away; The triumphs, without pain or toil, Without the hell, the heav'n of joy. And while I thus at random rove Despise the fools that whine for love.

Auden, "Musee des Beaux Arts," - Auden

About suffering they were never wrong,The Old Masters: how well they understoodIts human position; how it takes placeWhile someone else is eating or opening a window or justwalking dully along;How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waitingFor the miraculous birth, there always must beChildren who did not specially want it to happen, skatingOn a pond at the edge of the wood:They never forgotThat even the dreadful martyrdom must run its courseAnyhow in a corner, some untidy spotWhere the dogs go on with their doggylife and the torturer's horseScratches its innocent behind on a tree.

Dylan Thomas, "And Death Shall Have no Dominion"

And death shall have no dominion.Dead men naked they shall be oneWith the man in the wind and the west moon;When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,They shall have stars at elbow and foot;Though they go mad they shall be sane,Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;Though lovers be lost love shall not;And death shall have no dominion. And death shall have no dominion.Under the windings of the seaThey lying long shall not die windily;Twisting on racks when sinews give way,Strapped to a wheel, yet they shall not break;Faith in their hands shall snap in two,And the unicorn evils run them through;Split all ends up they shan't crack;And death shall have no dominion. And death shall have no dominion.No more may gulls cry at their earsOr waves break loud on the seashores;Where blew a flower may a flower no moreLift its head to the blows of the rain;Though they be mad and dead as nails,Heads of the characters hammer through daisies;Break in the sun till the sun breaks down,And death shall have no dominion

Adrienne Rich, "Aunt Jennifer's Tigers,"

Aunt Jennifer's tigers prance across a screen,Bright topaz denizens of a world of green.They do not fear the men beneath the tree;They pace in sleek chivalric certainty. Aunt Jennifer's finger fluttering through her woolFind even the ivory needle hard to pull.The massive weight of Uncle's wedding bandSits heavily upon Aunt Jennifer's hand. When Aunt is dead, her terrified hands will lieStill ringed with ordeals she was mastered by.The tigers in the panel that she madeWill go on prancing, proud and unafraid.

Digging; Seamus Heaney

Between my finger and my thumb The squat pen rests; snug as a gun. Under my window, a clean rasping sound When the spade sinks into gravelly ground: My father, digging. I look down Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds Bends low, comes up twenty years away Stooping in rhythm through potato drills Where he was digging. The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft Against the inside knee was levered firmly. He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep To scatter new potatoes that we picked, Loving their cool hardness in our hands. By God, the old man could handle a spade. Just like his old man. My grandfather cut more turf in a day Than any other man on Toner's bog. Once I carried him milk in a bottle Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up To drink it, then fell to right away Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods Over his shoulder, going down and down For the good turf. Digging. The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge Through living roots awaken in my head. But I've no spade to follow men like them. Between my finger and my thumb The squat pen rests. I'll dig with it.

"The Emperor of Ice Cream" - Wallace Stevens

Call the roller of big cigars, The muscular one, and bid him whip In kitchen cups concupiscent curds. Let the wenches dawdle in such dress As they are used to wear, and let the boys Bring flowers in last month's newspapers. Let be be finale of seem. The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream. Take from the dresser of deal, Lacking the three glass knobs, that sheet On which she embroidered fantails once And spread it so as to cover her face. If her horny feet protrude, they come To show how cold she is, and dumb. Let the lamp affix its beam. The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.`

"The Poems of our Climate" - Wallace Stevens

Clear water in a brilliant bowl,Pink and white carnations. The lightIn the room more like a snowy air,Reflecting snow. A newly-fallen snowAt the end of winter when afternoons return.Pink and white carnations - one desiresSo much more than that. The day itselfIs simplified: a bowl of white,Cold, a cold porcelain, low and round,With nothing more than the carnations there.IISay even that this complete simplicityStripped one of all one's torments, concealedThe evilly compounded, vital IAnd made it fresh in a world of white,A world of clear water, brilliant-edged,Still one would want more, one would need more,More than a world of white and snowy scents.IIIThere would still remain the never-resting mind,So that one would want to escape, come backTo what had been so long composed.The imperfect is our paradise.Note that, in this bitterness, delight,Since the imperfect is so hot in us,Lies in flawed words and stubborn sounds.

Christopher Marlowe, "The Passionate Shepherd to His Love,"

Come live with me and be my love, And we will all the pleasures prove, That Valleys, groves, hills, and fields, Woods, or steepy mountain yields. And we will sit upon the Rocks, Seeing the Shepherds feed their flocks, By shallow Rivers to whose falls Melodious birds sing Madrigals. And I will make thee beds of Roses And a thousand fragrant posies, A cap of flowers, and a kirtle Embroidered all with leaves of Myrtle; A gown made of the finest wool Which from our pretty Lambs we pull; Fair lined slippers for the cold, With buckles of the purest gold; A belt of straw and Ivy buds, With Coral clasps and Amber studs: And if these pleasures may thee move, Come live with me, and be my love. The Shepherds' Swains shall dance and sing For thy delight each May-morning: If these delights thy mind may move, Then live with me, and be my love.

Sunday Morning - Wallace Stevens

Complacencies of the peignoir, and late Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair, And the green freedom of a cockatoo Upon a rug mingle to dissipate The holy hush of ancient sacrifice. She dreams a little, and she feels the dark Encroachment of that old catastrophe, As a calm darkens among water-lights. The pungent oranges and bright, green wings Seem things in some procession of the dead, Winding across wide water, without sound. The day is like wide water, without sound, Stilled for the passing of her dreaming feet Over the seas, to silent Palestine, Dominion of the blood and sepulchre. II Why should she give her bounty to the dead? What is divinity if it can come Only in silent shadows and in dreams? Shall she not find in comforts of the sun, In pungent fruit and bright, green wings, or else In any balm or beauty of the earth, Things to be cherished like the thought of heaven? Divinity must live within herself: Passions of rain, or moods in falling snow; Grievings in loneliness, or unsubdued Elations when the forest blooms; gusty Emotions on wet roads on autumn nights; All pleasures and all pains, remembering The bough of summer and the winter branch. These are the measures destined for her soul. III Jove in the clouds had his inhuman birth. No mother suckled him, no sweet land gave Large-mannered motions to his mythy mind. He moved among us, as a muttering king, Magnificent, would move among his hinds, Until our blood, commingling, virginal, With heaven, brought such requital to desire The very hinds discerned it, in a star. Shall our blood fail? Or shall it come to be The blood of paradise? And shall the earth Seem all of paradise that we shall know? The sky will be much friendlier then than now, A part of labor and a part of pain, And next in glory to enduring love, Not this dividing and indifferent blue. IV She says, "I am content when wakened birds, Before they fly, test the reality Of misty fields, by their sweet questionings; But when the birds are gone, and their warm fields Return no more, where, then, is paradise?" There is not any haunt of prophecy, Nor any old chimera of the grave, Neither the golden underground, nor isle Melodious, where spirits gat them home, Nor visionary south, nor cloudy palm Remote on heaven's hill, that has endured As April's green endures; or will endure Like her remembrance of awakened birds, Or her desire for June and evening, tipped By the consummation of the swallow's wings. V She says, "But in contentment I still feel The need of some imperishable bliss." Death is the mother of beauty; hence from her, Alone, shall come fulfilment to our dreams And our desires. Although she strews the leaves Of sure obliteration on our paths, The path sick sorrow took, the many paths Where triumph rang its brassy phrase, or love Whispered a little out of tenderness, She makes the willow shiver in the sun For maidens who were wont to sit and gaze Upon the grass, relinquished to their feet. She causes boys to pile new plums and pears On disregarded plate. The maidens taste And stray impassioned in the littering leaves. VI Is there no change of death in paradise? Does ripe fruit never fall? Or do the boughs Hang always heavy in that perfect sky, Unchanging, yet so like our perishing earth, With rivers like our own that seek for seas They never find, the same receding shores That never touch with inarticulate pang? Why set the pear upon those river-banks Or spice the shores with odors of the plum? Alas, that they should wear our colors there, The silken weavings of our afternoons, And pick the strings of our insipid lutes! Death is the mother of beauty, mystical, Within whose burning bosom we devise Our earthly mothers waiting, sleeplessly. VII Supple and turbulent, a ring of men Shall chant in orgy on a summer morn Their boisterous devotion to the sun, Not as a god, but as a god might be, Naked among them, like a savage source. Their chant shall be a chant of paradise, Out of their blood, returning to the sky; And in their chant shall enter, voice by voice, The windy lake wherein their lord delights, The trees, like serafin, and echoing hills, That choir among themselves long afterward. They shall know well the heavenly fellowship Of men that perish and of summer morn. And whence they came and whither they shall go The dew upon their feet shall manifest. VIII She hears, upon that water without sound, A voice that cries, "The tomb in Palestine Is not the porch of spirits lingering. It is the grave of Jesus, where he lay." We live in an old chaos of the sun, Or old dependency of day and night, Or island solitude, unsponsored, free, Of that wide water, inescapable. Deer walk upon our mountains, and the quail Whistle about us their spontaneous cries; Sweet berries ripen in the wilderness; And, in the isolation of the sky, At evening, casual flocks of pigeons make Ambiguous undulations as they sink, Downward to darkness, on extended wings.

A Divine Image - william blake

Cruelty has a Human Heart And Jealousy a Human Face Terror the Human Form Divine And Secrecy, the Human Dress The Human Dress, is forged Iron The Human Form, a fiery Forge. The Human Face, a Furnace seal'd The Human Heart, its hungry Gorge.

"Do not Go Gentle Unto that Good Night," - Dylan Thomas

Do not go gentle into that good night,Old age should burn and rave at close of day;Rage, rage against the dying of the light.Though wise men at their end know dark is right,Because their words had forked no lightning theyDo not go gentle into that good night.Good men, the last wave by, crying how brightTheir frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,Rage, rage against the dying of the light.Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,Do not go gentle into that good night.Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sightBlind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,Rage, rage against the dying of the light.And you, my father, there on the sad height,Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.Do not go gentle into that good night.Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Ben Jonson, "Song to Celia" I and II

Drink to me only with thine eyes, And I will pledge with mine; Or leave a kiss but in the cup, And I'll not look for wine. The thirst that from the soul doth rise Doth ask a drink divine; But might I of Jove's nectar sup, I would not change for thine. I sent thee late a rosy wreath, Not so much honouring thee As giving it a hope, that there It could not withered be. But thou thereon didst only breathe, And sent'st it back to me; Since when it grows, and smells, I swear, Not of itself, but thee.

On my first son - Ben Johnson

Farewell, thou child of my right hand, and joy; My sin was too much hope of thee, lov'd boy. Seven years tho' wert lent to me, and I thee pay, Exacted by thy fate, on the just day. O, could I lose all father now! For why Will man lament the state he should envy? To have so soon 'scap'd world's and flesh's rage, And if no other misery, yet age? Rest in soft peace, and, ask'd, say, "Here doth lie Ben Jonson his best piece of poetry." For whose sake henceforth all his vows be such, As what he loves may never like too much.

William Shakespeare, "Fear No More the Heat o' the Sun,"

Fear no more the heat o' the sun, Nor the furious winter's rages; Thou thy worldly task hast done, Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages: Golden lads and girls all must, As chimney-sweepers, come to dust. Fear no more the frown o' the great; Thou art past the tyrant's stroke; Care no more to clothe and eat; To thee the reed is as the oak: The scepter, learning, physic, must All follow this, and come to dust. Fear no more the lightning flash, Nor the all-dreaded thunder stone; Fear not slander, censure rash; Thou hast finished joy and moan: All lovers young, all lovers must Consign to thee, and come to dust. No exorciser harm thee! Nor no witchcraft charm thee! Ghost unlaid forbear thee! Nothing ill come near thee! Quiet consummation have; And renownèd be thy grave!

Robert Herrick, "To The Virgins, to Make Much of Time,"

Gather ye rose-buds while ye may, Old Time is still a-flying; And this same flower that smiles today Tomorrow will be dying. The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun, The higher he's a-getting, The sooner will his race be run, And nearer he's to setting. That age is best which is the first, When youth and blood are warmer; But being spent, the worse, and worst Times still succeed the former. Then be not coy, but use your time, And while ye may, go marry; For having lost but once your prime, You may forever tarry.

"He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven," William Butler Yeats

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,Enwrought with golden and silver light,The blue and the dim and the dark clothsOf night and light and the half-light,I would spread the cloths under your feet:But I, being poor, have only my dreams;I have spread my dreams under your feet;Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

Andrew Marvel, "To His Coy Mistress,"

Had we but world enough and time, This coyness, lady, were no crime. We would sit down, and think which way To walk, and pass our long love's day. Thou by the Indian Ganges' side Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide Of Humber would complain. I would Love you ten years before the flood, And you should, if you please, refuse Till the conversion of the Jews. My vegetable love should grow Vaster than empires and more slow; An hundred years should go to praise Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze; Two hundred to adore each breast, But thirty thousand to the rest; An age at least to every part, And the last age should show your heart. For, lady, you deserve this state, Nor would I love at lower rate. But at my back I always hear Time's wingèd chariot hurrying near; And yonder all before us lie Deserts of vast eternity. Thy beauty shall no more be found; Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound My echoing song; then worms shall try That long-preserved virginity, And your quaint honour turn to dust, And into ashes all my lust; The grave's a fine and private place, But none, I think, do there embrace. Now therefore, while the youthful hue Sits on thy skin like morning dew, And while thy willing soul transpires At every pore with instant fires, Now let us sport us while we may, And now, like amorous birds of prey, Rather at once our time devour Than languish in his slow-chapped power. Let us roll all our strength and all Our sweetness up into one ball, And tear our pleasures with rough strife Through the iron gates of life: Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run.

Ben Jonson, "On My First Daughter"

Here lies, to each her parents' ruth, Mary, the daughter of their youth; Yet all heaven's gifts being heaven's due, It makes the father less to rue. At six months' end she parted hence With safety of her innocence; Whose soul heaven's queen, whose name she bears, In comfort of her mother's tears, Hath placed amongst her virgin-train: Where, while that severed doth remain, This grave partakes the fleshly birth; Which cover lightly, gentle earth!

This is Just to Say (William Carlos Williams)

I have eaten the plums that were in the icebox and which you were probably saving for breakfast Forgive me they were delicious so sweet and so cold

Marianne Moore, "Poetry,"

I too, dislike it: there are things that are important beyond all this fiddle. Reading it, however, with a perfect contempt for it, one discovers that there is in it after all, a place for the genuine. Hands that can grasp, eyes that can dilate, hair that can rise if it must, these things are important not because a high-sounding interpretation can be put upon them but because they are useful; when they become so derivative as to become unintelligible, the same thing may be said for all of us—that we do not admire what we cannot understand. The bat, holding on upside down or in quest of something to eat, elephants pushing, a wild horse taking a roll, a tireless wolf under a tree, the immovable critic twinkling his skin like a horse that feels a flea, the base- ball fan, the statistician—case after case could be cited did one wish it; nor is it valid to discriminate against "business documents and school-books"; all these phenomena are important. One must make a distinction however: when dragged into prominence by half poets, the result is not poetry, nor till the autocrats among us can be "literalists of the imagination"—above insolence and triviality and can present for inspection, imaginary gardens with real toads in them, shall we have it. In the meantime, if you demand on the one hand, in defiance of their opinion— the raw material of poetry in all its rawness, and that which is on the other hand, genuine, then you are interested in poetry.

The Lakes of Innisfree - William Butler Yeats

I will arise and go. . . page 1242

Sir Walter Ralegh, "The Nymph's Reply to the Shepherd,"

If all the world and love were young, And truth in every Shepherd's tongue, These pretty pleasures might me move, To live with thee, and be thy love. Time drives the flocks from field to fold, When Rivers rage and Rocks grow cold, And Philomel becometh dumb, The rest complains of cares to come. The flowers do fade, and wanton fields, To wayward winter reckoning yields, A honey tongue, a heart of gall, Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall. Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of Roses, Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten: In folly ripe, in reason rotten. Thy belt of straw and Ivy buds, The Coral clasps and amber studs, All these in me no means can move To come to thee and be thy love. But could youth last, and love still breed, Had joys no date, nor age no need, Then these delights my mind might move To live with thee, and be thy love.

Kubla Khan (Coleridge)

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan A stately pleasure-dome decree: Where Alph, the sacred river, ran Through caverns measureless to man Down to a sunless sea. So twice five miles of fertile ground With walls and towers were girdled round; And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills, Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree; And here were forests ancient as the hills, Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover! A savage place! as holy and enchanted As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted By woman wailing for her demon-lover! And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething, As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing, A mighty fountain momently was forced: Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail, Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail: And mid these dancing rocks at once and ever It flung up momently the sacred river. Five miles meandering with a mazy motion Through wood and dale the sacred river ran, Then reached the caverns measureless to man, And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean; And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far Ancestral voices prophesying war! The shadow of the dome of pleasure Floated midway on the waves; Where was heard the mingled measure From the fountain and the caves. It was a miracle of rare device, A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice! A damsel with a dulcimer In a vision once I saw: It was an Abyssinian maid And on her dulcimer she played, Singing of Mount Abora. Could I revive within me Her symphony and song, To such a deep delight 'twould win me, That with music loud and long, I would build that dome in air, That sunny dome! those caves of ice! And all who heard should see them there, And all should cry, Beware! Beware! His flashing eyes, his floating hair! Weave a circle round him thrice, And close your eyes with holy dread For he on honey-dew hath fed, And drunk the milk of Paradise.

Alexander Pope, "Eloisa to Abelard,"

In these deep solitudes and awful cells, Where heav'nly-pensive contemplation dwells, And ever-musing melancholy reigns; What means this tumult in a vestal's veins? Why rove my thoughts beyond this last retreat? Why feels my heart its long-forgotten heat? Yet, yet I love!—From Abelard it came, And Eloisa yet must kiss the name. Dear fatal name! rest ever unreveal'd, Nor pass these lips in holy silence seal'd. Hide it, my heart, within that close disguise, Where mix'd with God's, his lov'd idea lies: O write it not, my hand—the name appears Already written—wash it out, my tears! In vain lost Eloisa weeps and prays, Her heart still dictates, and her hand obeys. Relentless walls! whose darksome round contains Repentant sighs, and voluntary pains: Ye rugged rocks! which holy knees have worn; Ye grots and caverns shagg'd with horrid thorn! Shrines! where their vigils pale-ey'd virgins keep, And pitying saints, whose statues learn to weep! Though cold like you, unmov'd, and silent grown, I have not yet forgot myself to stone. All is not Heav'n's while Abelard has part, Still rebel nature holds out half my heart; Nor pray'rs nor fasts its stubborn pulse restrain, Nor tears, for ages, taught to flow in vain. Soon as thy letters trembling I unclose, That well-known name awakens all my woes. Oh name for ever sad! for ever dear! Still breath'd in sighs, still usher'd with a tear. I tremble too, where'er my own I find, Some dire misfortune follows close behind. Line after line my gushing eyes o'erflow, Led through a sad variety of woe: Now warm in love, now with'ring in thy bloom, Lost in a convent's solitary gloom! There stern religion quench'd th' unwilling flame, There died the best of passions, love and fame. Yet write, oh write me all, that I may join Griefs to thy griefs, and echo sighs to thine. Nor foes nor fortune take this pow'r away; And is my Abelard less kind than they? Tears still are mine, and those I need not spare, Love but demands what else were shed in pray'r; No happier task these faded eyes pursue; To read and weep is all they now can do. Then share thy pain, allow that sad relief; Ah, more than share it! give me all thy grief. Heav'n first taught letters for some wretch's aid, Some banish'd lover, or some captive maid; They live, they speak, they breathe what love inspires, Warm from the soul, and faithful to its fires, The virgin's wish without her fears impart, Excuse the blush, and pour out all the heart, Speed the soft intercourse from soul to soul, And waft a sigh from Indus to the Pole. Thou know'st how guiltless first I met thy flame, When Love approach'd me under Friendship's name; My fancy form'd thee of angelic kind, Some emanation of th' all-beauteous Mind. Those smiling eyes, attemp'ring ev'ry day, Shone sweetly lambent with celestial day. Guiltless I gaz'd; heav'n listen'd while you sung; And truths divine came mended from that tongue. From lips like those what precept fail'd to move? Too soon they taught me 'twas no sin to love. Back through the paths of pleasing sense I ran, Nor wish'd an Angel whom I lov'd a Man. Dim and remote the joys of saints I see; Nor envy them, that heav'n I lose for thee. How oft, when press'd to marriage, have I said, Curse on all laws but those which love has made! Love, free as air, at sight of human ties, Spreads his light wings, and in a moment flies, Let wealth, let honour, wait the wedded dame, August her deed, and sacred be her fame; Before true passion all those views remove, Fame, wealth, and honour! what are you to Love? The jealous God, when we profane his fires, Those restless passions in revenge inspires; And bids them make mistaken mortals groan, Who seek in love for aught but love alone. Should at my feet the world's great master fall, Himself, his throne, his world, I'd scorn 'em all: Not Caesar's empress would I deign to prove; No, make me mistress to the man I love; If there be yet another name more free, More fond than mistress, make me that to thee! Oh happy state! when souls each other draw, When love is liberty, and nature, law: All then is full, possessing, and possess'd, No craving void left aching in the breast: Ev'n thought meets thought, ere from the lips it part, And each warm wish springs mutual from the heart. This sure is bliss (if bliss on earth there be) And once the lot of Abelard and me. Alas, how chang'd! what sudden horrors rise! A naked lover bound and bleeding lies! Where, where was Eloise? her voice, her hand, Her poniard, had oppos'd the dire command. Barbarian, stay! that bloody stroke restrain; The crime was common, common be the pain. I can no more; by shame, by rage suppress'd, Let tears, and burning blushes speak the rest. Canst thou forget that sad, that solemn day, When victims at yon altar's foot we lay? Canst thou forget what tears that moment fell, When, warm in youth, I bade the world farewell? As with cold lips I kiss'd the sacred veil, The shrines all trembl'd, and the lamps grew pale: Heav'n scarce believ'd the conquest it survey'd, And saints with wonder heard the vows I made. Yet then, to those dread altars as I drew, Not on the Cross my eyes were fix'd, but you: Not grace, or zeal, love only was my call, And if I lose thy love, I lose my all. Come! with thy looks, thy words, relieve my woe; Those still at least are left thee to bestow. Still on that breast enamour'd let me lie, Still drink delicious poison from thy eye, Pant on thy lip, and to thy heart be press'd; Give all thou canst—and let me dream the rest. Ah no! instruct me other joys to prize, With other beauties charm my partial eyes, Full in my view set all the bright abode, And make my soul quit Abelard for God. Ah, think at least thy flock deserves thy care, Plants of thy hand, and children of thy pray'r. From the false world in early youth they fled, By thee to mountains, wilds, and deserts led. You rais'd these hallow'd walls; the desert smil'd, And Paradise was open'd in the wild. No weeping orphan saw his father's stores Our shrines irradiate, or emblaze the floors; No silver saints, by dying misers giv'n, Here brib'd the rage of ill-requited heav'n: But such plain roofs as piety could raise, And only vocal with the Maker's praise. In these lone walls (their days eternal bound) These moss-grown domes with spiry turrets crown'd, Where awful arches make a noonday night, And the dim windows shed a solemn light; Thy eyes diffus'd a reconciling ray, And gleams of glory brighten'd all the day. But now no face divine contentment wears, 'Tis all blank sadness, or continual tears. See how the force of others' pray'rs I try, (O pious fraud of am'rous charity!) But why should I on others' pray'rs depend? Come thou, my father, brother, husband, friend! Ah let thy handmaid, sister, daughter move, And all those tender names in one, thy love! The darksome pines that o'er yon rocks reclin'd Wave high, and murmur to the hollow wind, The wand'ring streams that shine between the hills, The grots that echo to the tinkling rills, The dying gales that pant upon the trees, The lakes that quiver to the curling breeze; No more these scenes my meditation aid, Or lull to rest the visionary maid. But o'er the twilight groves and dusky caves, Long-sounding aisles, and intermingled graves, Black Melancholy sits, and round her throws A death-like silence, and a dread repose: Her gloomy presence saddens all the scene, Shades ev'ry flow'r, and darkens ev'ry green, Deepens the murmur of the falling floods, And breathes a browner horror on the woods. Yet here for ever, ever must I stay; Sad proof how well a lover can obey! Death, only death, can break the lasting chain; And here, ev'n then, shall my cold dust remain, Here all its frailties, all its flames resign, And wait till 'tis no sin to mix with thine. Ah wretch! believ'd the spouse of God in vain, Confess'd within the slave of love and man. Assist me, Heav'n! but whence arose that pray'r? Sprung it from piety, or from despair? Ev'n here, where frozen chastity retires, Love finds an altar for forbidden fires. I ought to grieve, but cannot what I ought; I mourn the lover, not lament the fault; I view my crime, but kindle at the view, Repent old pleasures, and solicit new; Now turn'd to Heav'n, I weep my past offence, Now think of thee, and curse my innocence. Of all affliction taught a lover yet, 'Tis sure the hardest science to forget! How shall I lose the sin, yet keep the sense, And love th' offender, yet detest th' offence? How the dear object from the crime remove, Or how distinguish penitence from love? Unequal task! a passion to resign, For hearts so touch'd, so pierc'd, so lost as mine. Ere such a soul regains its peaceful state, How often must it love, how often hate! How often hope, despair, resent, regret, Conceal, disdain—do all things but forget. But let Heav'n seize it, all at once 'tis fir'd; Not touch'd, but rapt; not waken'd, but inspir'd! Oh come! oh teach me nature to subdue, Renounce my love, my life, myself—and you. Fill my fond heart with God alone, for he Alone can rival, can succeed to thee. How happy is the blameless vestal's lot! The world forgetting, by the world forgot. Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind! Each pray'r accepted, and each wish resign'd; Labour and rest, that equal periods keep; "Obedient slumbers that can wake and weep;" Desires compos'd, affections ever ev'n, Tears that delight, and sighs that waft to Heav'n. Grace shines around her with serenest beams, And whisp'ring angels prompt her golden dreams. For her th' unfading rose of Eden blooms, And wings of seraphs shed divine perfumes, For her the Spouse prepares the bridal ring, For her white virgins hymeneals sing, To sounds of heav'nly harps she dies away, And melts in visions of eternal day. Far other dreams my erring soul employ, Far other raptures, of unholy joy: When at the close of each sad, sorrowing day, Fancy restores what vengeance snatch'd away, Then conscience sleeps, and leaving nature free, All my loose soul unbounded springs to thee. Oh curs'd, dear horrors of all-conscious night! How glowing guilt exalts the keen delight! Provoking Daemons all restraint remove, And stir within me every source of love. I hear thee, view thee, gaze o'er all thy charms, And round thy phantom glue my clasping arms. I wake—no more I hear, no more I view, The phantom flies me, as unkind as you. I call aloud; it hears not what I say; I stretch my empty arms; it glides away. To dream once more I close my willing eyes; Ye soft illusions, dear deceits, arise! Alas, no more—methinks we wand'ring go Through dreary wastes, and weep each other's woe, Where round some mould'ring tower pale ivy creeps, And low-brow'd rocks hang nodding o'er the deeps. Sudden you mount, you beckon from the skies; Clouds interpose, waves roar, and winds arise. I shriek, start up, the same sad prospect find, And wake to all the griefs I left behind. For thee the fates, severely kind, ordain A cool suspense from pleasure and from pain; Thy life a long, dead calm of fix'd repose; No pulse that riots, and no blood that glows. Still as the sea, ere winds were taught to blow, Or moving spirit bade the waters flow; Soft as the slumbers of a saint forgiv'n, And mild as opening gleams of promis'd heav'n. Come, Abelard! for what hast thou to dread? The torch of Venus burns not for the dead. Nature stands check'd; Religion disapproves; Ev'n thou art cold—yet Eloisa loves. Ah hopeless, lasting flames! like those that burn To light the dead, and warm th' unfruitful urn. What scenes appear where'er I turn my view? The dear ideas, where I fly, pursue, Rise in the grove, before the altar rise, Stain all my soul, and wanton in my eyes. I waste the matin lamp in sighs for thee, Thy image steals between my God and me, Thy voice I seem in ev'ry hymn to hear, With ev'ry bead I drop too soft a tear. When from the censer clouds of fragrance roll, And swelling organs lift the rising soul, One thought of thee puts all the pomp to flight, Priests, tapers, temples, swim before my sight: In seas of flame my plunging soul is drown'd, While altars blaze, and angels tremble round. While prostrate here in humble grief I lie, Kind, virtuous drops just gath'ring in my eye, While praying, trembling, in the dust I roll, And dawning grace is op'ning on my soul: Come, if thou dar'st, all charming as thou art! Oppose thyself to Heav'n; dispute my heart; Come, with one glance of those deluding eyes Blot out each bright idea of the skies; Take back that grace, those sorrows, and those tears; Take back my fruitless penitence and pray'rs; Snatch me, just mounting, from the blest abode; Assist the fiends, and tear me from my God! No, fly me, fly me, far as pole from pole; Rise Alps between us! and whole oceans roll! Ah, come not, write not, think not once of me, Nor share one pang of all I felt for thee. Thy oaths I quit, thy memory resign; Forget, renounce me, hate whate'er was mine. Fair eyes, and tempting looks (which yet I view!) Long lov'd, ador'd ideas, all adieu! Oh Grace serene! oh virtue heav'nly fair! Divine oblivion of low-thoughted care! Fresh blooming hope, gay daughter of the sky! And faith, our early immortality! Enter, each mild, each amicable guest; Receive, and wrap me in eternal rest! See in her cell sad Eloisa spread, Propp'd on some tomb, a neighbour of the dead. In each low wind methinks a spirit calls, And more than echoes talk along the walls. Here, as I watch'd the dying lamps around, From yonder shrine I heard a hollow sound. "Come, sister, come!" (it said, or seem'd to say) "Thy place is here, sad sister, come away! Once like thyself, I trembled, wept, and pray'd, Love's victim then, though now a sainted maid: But all is calm in this eternal sleep; Here grief forgets to groan, and love to weep, Ev'n superstition loses ev'ry fear: For God, not man, absolves our frailties here." I come, I come! prepare your roseate bow'rs, Celestial palms, and ever-blooming flow'rs. Thither, where sinners may have rest, I go, Where flames refin'd in breasts seraphic glow: Thou, Abelard! the last sad office pay, And smooth my passage to the realms of day; See my lips tremble, and my eye-balls roll, Suck my last breath, and catch my flying soul! Ah no—in sacred vestments may'st thou stand, The hallow'd taper trembling in thy hand, Present the cross before my lifted eye, Teach me at once, and learn of me to die. Ah then, thy once-lov'd Eloisa see! It will be then no crime to gaze on me. See from my cheek the transient roses fly! See the last sparkle languish in my eye! Till ev'ry motion, pulse, and breath be o'er; And ev'n my Abelard be lov'd no more. O Death all-eloquent! you only prove What dust we dote on, when 'tis man we love. Then too, when fate shall thy fair frame destroy, (That cause of all my guilt, and all my joy) In trance ecstatic may thy pangs be drown'd, Bright clouds descend, and angels watch thee round, From op'ning skies may streaming glories shine, And saints embrace thee with a love like mine. May one kind grave unite each hapless name, And graft my love immortal on thy fame! Then, ages hence, when all my woes are o'er, When this rebellious heart shall beat no more; If ever chance two wand'ring lovers brings To Paraclete's white walls and silver springs, O'er the pale marble shall they join their heads, And drink the falling tears each other sheds; Then sadly say, with mutual pity mov'd, "Oh may we never love as these have lov'd!" From the full choir when loud Hosannas rise, And swell the pomp of dreadful sacrifice, Amid that scene if some relenting eye Glance on the stone where our cold relics lie, Devotion's self shall steal a thought from Heav'n, One human tear shall drop and be forgiv'n. And sure, if fate some future bard shall join In sad similitude of griefs to mine, Condemn'd whole years in absence to deplore, And image charms he must behold no more; Such if there be, who loves so long, so well; Let him our sad, our tender story tell; The well-sung woes will soothe my pensive ghost; He best can paint 'em, who shall feel 'em most.

Ogden Nash, "Adventures of Isabel,"

Isabel met an enormous bear,Isabel, Isabel, didn't care;The bear was hungry, the bear was ravenous,The bear's big mouth was cruel and cavernous.The bear said, Isabel, glad to meet you,How do, Isabel, now I'll eat you!Isabel, Isabel, didn't worry.Isabel didn't scream or scurry.She washed her hands and she straightened her hair up,Then Isabel quietly ate the bear up.Once in a night as black as pitchIsabel met a wicked old witch.the witch's face was cross and wrinkled,The witch's gums with teeth were sprinkled.Ho, ho, Isabel! the old witch crowed,I'll turn you into an ugly toad!Isabel, Isabel, didn't worry,Isabel didn't scream or scurry,She showed no rage and she showed no rancor,But she turned the witch into milk and drank her.Isabel met a hideous giant,Isabel continued self reliant.The giant was hairy, the giant was horrid,He had one eye in the middle of his forhead.Good morning, Isabel, the giant said,I'll grind your bones to make my bread.Isabel, Isabel, didn't worry,Isabel didn't scream or scurry.She nibled the zwieback that she always fed off,And when it was gone, she cut the giant's head off.Isabel met a troublesome doctor,He punched and he poked till he really shocked her.The doctor's talk was of coughs and chillsAnd the doctor's satchel bulged with pills.The doctor said unto Isabel,Swallow this, it will make you well.Isabel, Isabel, didn't worry,Isabel didn't scream or scurry.She took those pills from the pill concocter,And Isabel calmly cured the doctor

Alfred Lord Tennyson, "Ulysses,"

It little profits that an idle king, By this still hearth, among these barren crags, Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole Unequal laws unto a savage race, That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me. I cannot rest from travel: I will drink Life to the lees: All times I have enjoy'd Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with those That loved me, and alone, on shore, and when Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades Vext the dim sea: I am become a name; For always roaming with a hungry heart Much have I seen and known; cities of men And manners, climates, councils, governments, Myself not least, but honour'd of them all; And drunk delight of battle with my peers, Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy. I am a part of all that I have met; Yet all experience is an arch wherethro' Gleams that untravell'd world whose margin fades For ever and forever when I move. How dull it is to pause, to make an end, To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use! As tho' to breathe were life! Life piled on life Were all too little, and of one to me Little remains: but every hour is saved From that eternal silence, something more, A bringer of new things; and vile it were For some three suns to store and hoard myself, And this gray spirit yearning in desire To follow knowledge like a sinking star, Beyond the utmost bound of human thought. This is my son, mine own Telemachus, To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle,— Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil This labour, by slow prudence to make mild A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees Subdue them to the useful and the good. Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere Of common duties, decent not to fail In offices of tenderness, and pay Meet adoration to my household gods, When I am gone. He works his work, I mine. There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail: There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners, Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me— That ever with a frolic welcome took The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed Free hearts, free foreheads—you and I are old; Old age hath yet his honour and his toil; Death closes all: but something ere the end, Some work of noble note, may yet be done, Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods. The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks: The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends, 'T is not too late to seek a newer world. Push off, and sitting well in order smite The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths Of all the western stars, until I die. It may be that the gulfs will wash us down: It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, And see the great Achilles, whom we knew. Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho' We are not now that strength which in old days Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are; One equal temper of heroic hearts, Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

Margaret Atwood, "This is a Photograph of Me"

It was taken some time ago.At first it seems to bea smearedprint: blurred lines and grey flecksblended with the paper; then, as you scanit, you see in the left-hand cornera thing that is like a branch: part of a tree(balsam or spruce) emergingand, to the right, halfway upwhat ought to be a gentleslope, a small frame house. In the background there is a lake,and beyond that, some low hills. (The photograph was takenthe day after I drowned. I am in the lake, in the centerof the picture, just under the surface. It is difficult to say whereprecisely, or to sayhow large or small I am:the effect of wateron light is a distortion but if you look long enough,eventuallyyou will be able to see me.)

Wallace Stevens, "Peter Quince at the Clavier"

Just as my fingers on these keys Make music, so the selfsame sounds On my spirit make a music, too. Music is feeling, then, not sound; And thus it is that what I feel, Here in this room, desiring you, Thinking of your blue-shadowed silk, Is music. It is like the strain Waked in the elders by Susanna: Of a green evening, clear and warm, She bathed in her still garden, while The red-eyed elders, watching, felt The basses of their beings throb In witching chords, and their thin blood Pulse pizzicati of Hosanna. II In the green water, clear and warm, Susanna lay. She searched The touch of springs, And found Concealed imaginings. She sighed, For so much melody. Upon the bank, she stood In the cool Of spent emotions. She felt, among the leaves, The dew Of old devotions. She walked upon the grass, Still quavering. The winds were like her maids, On timid feet, Fetching her woven scarves, Yet wavering. A breath upon her hand Muted the night. She turned— A cymbal crashed, And roaring horns. III Soon, with a noise like tambourines, Came her attendant Byzantines. They wondered why Susanna cried Against the elders by her side; And as they whispered, the refrain Was like a willow swept by rain. Anon, their lamps' uplifted flame Revealed Susanna and her shame. And then, the simpering Byzantines Fled, with a noise like tambourines. IV Beauty is momentary in the mind— The fitful tracing of a portal; But in the flesh it is immortal. The body dies; the body's beauty lives. So evenings die, in their green going, A wave, interminably flowing. So gardens die, their meek breath scenting The cowl of winter, done repenting. So maidens die, to the auroral Celebration of a maiden's choral. Susanna's music touched the bawdy strings Of those white elders; but, escaping, Left only Death's ironic scraping. Now, in its immortality, it plays On the clear viol of her memory, And makes a constant sacrament of praise.

Mary Wroth, "Song,"

LOVE, a child, is ever crying;Please him, and he straight is flying;Give him, he the more is craving,Never satisfied with having. His desires have no measure; 5Endless folly is his treasure;What he promiseth he breaketh;Trust not one word that he speaketh. He vows nothing but false matter;And to cozen you will flatter; 10Let him gain the hand, he'll leave youAnd still glory to deceive you. He will triumph in your wailing;And yet cause be of your failing:These his virtues are, and slighter 15Are his gifts, his favours lighter. Feathers are as firm in staying;Wolves no fiercer in their preying;As a child then, leave him crying;Nor seek him so given to flying.

T.S. Eliot, "The Love Song of Alfred J. Prufrock,"

Let us go then, you and I,When the evening is spread out against the skyLike a patient etherized upon a table;Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,The muttering retreatsOf restless nights in one-night cheap hotelsAnd sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:Streets that follow like a tedious argumentOf insidious intentTo lead you to an overwhelming question ...Oh, do not ask, "What is it?" Let us go and make our visit.In the room the women come and goTalking of Michelangelo. The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes,Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,And seeing that it was a soft October night,Curled once about the house, and fell asleep. And indeed there will be timeFor the yellow smoke that slides along the street,Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;There will be time, there will be timeTo prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;There will be time to murder and create,And time for all the works and days of handsThat lift and drop a question on your plate;Time for you and time for me,And time yet for a hundred indecisions,And for a hundred visions and revisions,Before the taking of a toast and tea. In the room the women come and goTalking of Michelangelo. And indeed there will be timeTo wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?"Time to turn back and descend the stair,With a bald spot in the middle of my hair —(They will say: "How his hair is growing thin!")My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin —(They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!")Do I dareDisturb the universe?In a minute there is timeFor decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse. For I have known them all already, known them all:Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;I know the voices dying with a dying fallBeneath the music from a farther room.So how should I presume? And I have known the eyes already, known them all—The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,Then how should I beginTo spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?And how should I presume? And I have known the arms already, known them all—Arms that are braceleted and white and bare(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)Is it perfume from a dressThat makes me so digress?Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.And should I then presume?And how should I begin? Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streetsAnd watched the smoke that rises from the pipesOf lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? ... I should have been a pair of ragged clawsScuttling across the floors of silent seas. And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!Smoothed by long fingers,Asleep ... tired ... or it malingers,Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,I am no prophet — and here's no great matter;I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,And in short, I was afraid. And would it have been worth it, after all,After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,Would it have been worth while,To have bitten off the matter with a smile,To have squeezed the universe into a ballTo roll it towards some overwhelming question,To say: "I am Lazarus, come from the dead,Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all"—If one, settling a pillow by her headShould say: "That is not what I meant at all;That is not it, at all." And would it have been worth it, after all,Would it have been worth while,After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—And this, and so much more?—It is impossible to say just what I mean!But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:Would it have been worth whileIf one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,And turning toward the window, should say:"That is not it at all,That is not what I meant, at all." No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;Am an attendant lord, one that will doTo swell a progress, start a scene or two,Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,Deferential, glad to be of use,Politic, cautious, and meticulous;Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—Almost, at times, the Fool. I grow old ... I grow old ...I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled. Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each. I do not think that they will sing to me. I have seen them riding seaward on the wavesCombing the white hair of the waves blown backWhen the wind blows the water white and black.We have lingered in the chambers of the seaBy sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brownTill human voices wake us, and we drown.

The Lamb - William Blake

Little Lamb who made thee Dost thou know who made thee Gave thee life & bid thee feed. By the stream & o'er the mead; Gave thee clothing of delight, Softest clothing wooly bright; Gave thee such a tender voice, Making all the vales rejoice! Little Lamb who made thee Dost thou know who made thee Little Lamb I'll tell thee, Little Lamb I'll tell thee! He is called by thy name, For he calls himself a Lamb: He is meek & he is mild, He became a little child: I a child & thou a lamb, We are called by his name. Little Lamb God bless thee. Little Lamb God bless thee.

Battle Hymn of the Republic - Julia Ward Howe

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord: He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored; He hath loosed the fatal lightning of his terrible swift sword: His truth is marching on. I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps; They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and damps; I can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps. His Day is marching on. I have read a fiery gospel, writ in burnished rows of steel: "As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace shall deal; Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel, Since God is marching on." He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat; He is sifting out the hearts of men before his judgment-seat: Oh! be swift, my soul, to answer Him! be jubilant, my feet! Our God is marching on. In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea, With a glory in his bosom that transfigures you and me: As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men free, While God is marching on.

"My Life Had stood - a loaded gun" - Emily Dickinson

My Life had stood - a Loaded Gun - In Corners - till a Day The Owner passed - identified - And carried Me away - And now We roam in Sovreign Woods - And now We hunt the Doe - And every time I speak for Him The Mountains straight reply - And do I smile, such cordial light Opon the Valley glow - It is as a Vesuvian face Had let it's pleasure through - And when at Night - Our good Day done - I guard My Master's Head - 'Tis better than the Eider Duck's Deep Pillow - to have shared - To foe of His - I'm deadly foe - None stir the second time - On whom I lay a Yellow Eye - Or an emphatic Thumb - Though I than He - may longer live He longer must - than I - For I have but the power to kill, Without - the power to die -

Robert Browning, "Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came,"

My first thought was, he lied in every word,That hoary cripple, with malicious eyeAskance to watch the workings of his lieOn mine, and mouth scarce able to affordSuppression of the glee, that pursed and scoredIts edge, at one more victim gained thereby.II.What else should he be set for, with his staff?What, save to waylay with his lies, ensnareAll travellers who might find him posted there,And ask the road? I guessed what skull-like laughWould break, what crutch 'gin write my epitaphFor pastime in the dusty thoroughfare.III.If at his counsel I should turn asideInto that ominous tract which, all agree,Hides the Dark Tower. Yet acquiescinglyI did turn as he pointed, neither prideNow hope rekindling at the end descried,So much as gladness that some end might be.IV.For, what with my whole world-wide wandering,What with my search drawn out through years, my hopeDwindled into a ghost not fit to copeWith that obstreperous joy success would bring,I hardly tried now to rebuke the springMy heart made, finding failure in its scope.V.As when a sick man very near to deathSeems dead indeed, and feels begin and endThe tears and takes the farewell of each friend,And hears one bit the other go, draw breathFreelier outside, ('since all is o'er,' he saithAnd the blow fallen no grieving can amend;')VI.When some discuss if near the other gravesbe room enough for this, and when a daySuits best for carrying the corpse away,With care about the banners, scarves and stavesAnd still the man hears all, and only cravesHe may not shame such tender love and stay.VII.Thus, I had so long suffered in this quest,Heard failure prophesied so oft, been writSo many times among 'The Band' to wit,The knights who to the Dark Tower's search addressedTheir steps - that just to fail as they, seemed best,And all the doubt was now - should I be fit?VIII.So, quiet as despair I turned from him,That hateful cripple, out of his highwayInto the path he pointed. All the dayHad been a dreary one at best, and dimWas settling to its close, yet shot one grimRed leer to see the plain catch its estray.IX.For mark! No sooner was I fairly foundPledged to the plain, after a pace or two,Than, pausing to throw backwards a last viewO'er the safe road, 'twas gone; grey plain all round;Nothing but plain to the horizon's bound.I might go on, naught else remained to do.X.So on I went. I think I never sawSuch starved ignoble nature; nothing throve:For flowers - as well expect a cedar grove!But cockle, spurge, according to their lawMight propagate their kind with none to awe,You'd think; a burr had been a treasure trove.XI.No! penury, inertness and grimace,In some strange sort, were the land's portion. 'SeeOr shut your eyes,' said Nature peevishly,It nothing skills: I cannot help my case:'Tis the Last Judgement's fire must cure this placeCalcine its clods and set my prisoners free.'XII.If there pushed any ragged thistle-stalkAbove its mates, the head was chopped, the bentsWere jealous else. What made those holes and rentsIn the dock's harsh swarth leaves, bruised as to baulkAll hope of greenness? Tis a brute must walkPashing their life out, with a brute's intents.XIII.As for the grass, it grew as scant as hairIn leprosy; thin dry blades pricked the mudWhich underneath looked kneaded up with blood.One stiff blind horse, his every bone a-stare,Stood stupified, however he came there:Thrust out past service from the devil's stud!XIV.Alive? he might be dead for aught I knew,With that red gaunt and colloped neck a-strain.And shut eyes underneath the rusty mane;Seldom went such grotesqueness with such woe;I never saw a brute I hated so;He must be wicked to deserve such pain.XV.I shut my eyes and turned them on my heart,As a man calls for wine before he fights,I asked one draught of earlier, happier sights,Ere fitly I could hope to play my part.Think first, fight afterwards, the soldier's art:One taste of the old time sets all to rights.XVI.Not it! I fancied Cuthbert's reddening faceBeneath its garniture of curly gold,Dear fellow, till I almost felt him foldAn arm to mine to fix me to the place,The way he used. Alas, one night's disgrace!Out went my heart's new fire and left it cold.XVII.Giles then, the soul of honour - there he standsFrank as ten years ago when knighted first,What honest man should dare (he said) he durst.Good - but the scene shifts - faugh! what hangman handsPin to his breast a parchment? His own bandsRead it. Poor traitor, spit upon and curst!XVIII.Better this present than a past like that:Back therefore to my darkening path again!No sound, no sight as far as eye could strain.Will the night send a howlet or a bat?I asked: when something on the dismal flatCame to arrest my thoughts and change their train.XIX.A sudden little river crossed my pathAs unexpected as a serpent comes.No sluggish tide congenial to the glooms;This, as it frothed by, might have been a bathFor the fiend's glowing hoof - to see the wrathOf its black eddy bespate with flakes and spumes.XX.So petty yet so spiteful! All along,Low scrubby alders kneeled down over it;Drenched willows flung them headlong in a fitOf mute despair, a suicidal throng:The river which had done them all the wrong,Whate'er that was, rolled by, deterred no whit.XXI.Which, while I forded - good saints, how I fearedTo set my foot upon a dead man's cheek,Each step, of feel the spear I thrust to seekFor hollows, tangled in his hair or beard!- It may have been a water-rat I speared,But, ugh! it sounded like a baby's shriek.XXII.Glad was I when I reached the other bank.Now for a better country. Vain presage!Who were the strugglers, what war did they wage,Whose savage trample thus could pad the danksoil to a plash? Toads in a poisoned tankOr wild cats in a red-hot iron cage -XXIII.The fight must so have seemed in that fell cirque,What penned them there, with all the plain to choose?No footprint leading to that horrid mews,None out of it. Mad brewage set to workTheir brains, no doubt, like galley-slaves the TurkPits for his pastime, Christians against Jews.XXIV.And more than that - a furlong on - why, there!What bad use was that engine for, that wheel,Or brake, not wheel - that harrow fit to reelMen's bodies out like silk? With all the airOf Tophet's tool, on earth left unawareOr brought to sharpen its rusty teeth of steel.XXV.Then came a bit of stubbed ground, once a wood,Next a marsh it would seem, and now mere earthDesperate and done with; (so a fool finds mirth,Makes a thing and then mars it, till his moodChanges and off he goes!) within a rood -Bog, clay and rubble, sand, and stark black dearth.XXVI.Now blotches rankling, coloured gay and grim,Now patches where some leanness of the soil'sBroke into moss, or substances like boils;Then came some palsied oak, a cleft in himLike a distorted mouth that splits its rimGaping at death, and dies while it recoils.XXVII.And just as far as ever from the end!Naught in the distance but the evening, naughtTo point my footstep further! At the thought,A great black bird, Apollyon's bosom friend,Sailed past, not best his wide wing dragon-pennedThat brushed my cap - perchance the guide I sought.XXVIII.For, looking up, aware I somehow grew,'Spite of the dusk, the plain had given placeAll round to mountains - with such name to graceMere ugly heights and heaps now stolen in view.How thus they had surprised me - solve it, you!How to get from them was no clearer case.XXIX.Yet half I seemed to recognise some trickOf mischief happened to me, God knows when -In a bad dream perhaps. Here ended, thenProgress this way. When, in the very nickOf giving up, one time more, came a clickAs when a trap shuts - you're inside the den.XXX.Burningly it came on me all at once,This was the place! those two hills on the right,Crouched like two bulls locked horn in horn in fight;While to the left a tall scalped mountain ... Dunce,Dotard, a-dozing at the very nonce,After a life spent training for the sight!XXXI.What in the midst lay but the Tower itself?The round squat turret, blind as the fool's heart,Built of brown stone, without a counterpartIn the whole world. The tempest's mocking elfPoints to the shipman thus the unseen shelfHe strikes on, only when the timbers start.XXXII.Not see? because of night perhaps? - why dayCame back again for that! before it leftThe dying sunset kindled through a cleft:The hills, like giants at a hunting, lay,Chin upon hand, to see the game at bay, -'Now stab and end the creature - to the heft!'XXXIII.Not hear? When noise was everywhere! it tolledIncreasing like a bell. Names in my earsOf all the lost adventurers, my peers -How such a one was strong, and such was bold,And such was fortunate, yet each of oldLost, lost! one moment knelled the woe of years.XXXIV.There they stood, ranged along the hillsides, metTo view the last of me, a living frameFor one more picture! In a sheet of flameI saw them and I knew them all. And yetDauntless the slug-horn to my lips I set,And blew. 'Childe Roland to the Dark Tower cam

"Spring and Fall," - GMH

Márgarét, áre you gríeving Over Goldengrove unleaving? Leáves like the things of man, you With your fresh thoughts care for, can you? Ah! ás the heart grows older It will come to such sights colder By and by, nor spare a sigh Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie; And yet you wíll weep and know why. Now no matter, child, the name: Sórrow's spríngs áre the same. Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed What heart heard of, ghost guessed: It ís the blight man was born for, It is Margaret you mourn for.

Gerard Manley Hopkins, "Carrion Comfort"

Not, I'll not, carrion comfort, Despair, not feast on thee; Not untwist — slack they may be — these last strands of man In me ór, most weary, cry I can no more. I can; Can something, hope, wish day come, not choose not to be. But ah, but O thou terrible, why wouldst thou rude on me Thy wring-world right foot rock? lay a lionlimb against me? scan With darksome devouring eyes my bruisèd bones? and fan, O in turns of tempest, me heaped there; me frantic to avoid thee and flee? Why? That my chaff might fly; my grain lie, sheer and clear. Nay in all that toil, that coil, since (seems) I kissed the rod, Hand rather, my heart lo! lapped strength, stole joy, would laugh, chéer. Cheer whom though? the hero whose heaven-handling flung me, fóot tród Me? or me that fought him? O which one? is it each one? That night, that year Of now done darkness I wretch lay wrestling with (my God!) my God.

Wallace Stevens, "The Snow Man,

One must have a mind of winter To regard the frost and the boughs Of the pine-trees crusted with snow; And have been cold a long time To behold the junipers shagged with ice, The spruces rough in the distant glitter Of the January sun; and not to think Of any misery in the sound of the wind, In the sound of a few leaves, Which is the sound of the land Full of the same wind That is blowing in the same bare place For the listener, who listens in the snow, And, nothing himself, beholds Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.

Edward Lear, all poems on pgs. 1090-4

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John Keats, "Ode to a Grecian Urn,"

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William Carlos Williams, from "Pictures of Brueghel,"

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Auden, "The Shield of Achilles,"

She looked over his shoulder For vines and olive trees, Marble well-governed cities And ships upon untamed seas, But there on the shining metal His hands had put instead An artificial wilderness And a sky like lead. A plain without a feature, bare and brown, No blade of grass, no sign of neighborhood,Nothing to eat and nowhere to sit down, Yet, congregated on its blankness, stood An unintelligible multitude,A million eyes, a million boots in line,Without expression, waiting for a sign. Out of the air a voice without a face Proved by statistics that some cause was justIn tones as dry and level as the place: No one was cheered and nothing was discussed; Column by column in a cloud of dustThey marched away enduring a beliefWhose logic brought them, somewhere else, to grief. She looked over his shoulder For ritual pieties, White flower-garlanded heifers, Libation and sacrifice, But there on the shining metal Where the altar should have been, She saw by his flickering forge-light Quite another scene. Barbed wire enclosed an arbitrary spot Where bored officials lounged (one cracked a joke)And sentries sweated for the day was hot: A crowd of ordinary decent folk Watched from without and neither moved nor spokeAs three pale figures were led forth and boundTo three posts driven upright in the ground. The mass and majesty of this world, all That carries weight and always weighs the sameLay in the hands of others; they were small And could not hope for help and no help came: What their foes like to do was done, their shameWas all the worst could wish; they lost their prideAnd died as men before their bodies died. She looked over his shoulder For athletes at their games, Men and women in a dance Moving their sweet limbs Quick, quick, to music, But there on the shining shield His hands had set no dancing-floor But a weed-choked field. A ragged urchin, aimless and alone, Loitered about that vacancy; a birdFlew up to safety from his well-aimed stone: That girls are raped, that two boys knife a third, Were axioms to him, who'd never heardOf any world where promises were kept,Or one could weep because another wept. The thin-lipped armorer, Hephaestos, hobbled away, Thetis of the shining breasts Cried out in dismay At what the god had wrought To please her son, the strong Iron-hearted man-slaying Achilles Who would not live long.

"The Idea of Order at Key West," - Wallace stevens

She sang beyond the genius of the sea. The water never formed to mind or voice, Like a body wholly body, fluttering Its empty sleeves; and yet its mimic motion Made constant cry, caused constantly a cry, That was not ours although we understood, Inhuman, of the veritable ocean. The sea was not a mask. No more was she. The song and water were not medleyed sound Even if what she sang was what she heard, Since what she sang was uttered word by word. It may be that in all her phrases stirred The grinding water and the gasping wind; But it was she and not the sea we heard. For she was the maker of the song she sang. The ever-hooded, tragic-gestured sea Was merely a place by which she walked to sing. Whose spirit is this? we said, because we knew It was the spirit that we sought and knew That we should ask this often as she sang. If it was only the dark voice of the sea That rose, or even colored by many waves; If it was only the outer voice of sky And cloud, of the sunken coral water-walled, However clear, it would have been deep air, The heaving speech of air, a summer sound Repeated in a summer without end And sound alone. But it was more than that, More even than her voice, and ours, among The meaningless plungings of water and the wind, Theatrical distances, bronze shadows heaped On high horizons, mountainous atmospheres Of sky and sea. It was her voice that made The sky acutest at its vanishing. She measured to the hour its solitude. She was the single artificer of the world In which she sang. And when she sang, the sea, Whatever self it had, became the self That was her song, for she was the maker. Then we, As we beheld her striding there alone, Knew that there never was a world for her Except the one she sang and, singing, made. Ramon Fernandez, tell me, if you know, Why, when the singing ended and we turned Toward the town, tell why the glassy lights, The lights in the fishing boats at anchor there, As the night descended, tilting in the air, Mastered the night and portioned out the sea, Fixing emblazoned zones and fiery poles, Arranging, deepening, enchanting night. Oh! Blessed rage for order, pale Ramon, The maker's rage to order words of the sea, Words of the fragrant portals, dimly-starred, And of ourselves and of our origins, In ghostlier demarcations, keener sounds.

Lord Byron, "She Walks in Beauty,"

She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that's best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes; Thus mellowed to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies. One shade the more, one ray the less, Had half impaired the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress, Or softly lightens o'er her face; Where thoughts serenely sweet express, How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, The smiles that win, the tints that glow, But tell of days in goodness spent, A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent!

William Ernst Henley, "Madam's Life's a Piece in Bloom,"

She's the tenant of the room,He's the ruffian on the stair.You shall see her as a friend,You shall bilk him once or twice;But he'll trap you in the end,And he'll stick you for her price.With his kneebones at your chest,And his knuckles in your throat,You would reason -- plead -- protest!Clutching at her petticoat;But she's heard it all before,Well she knows you've had your fun,Gingerly she gains the door,And your little job is done.

John Ashbery, "The Painter,"

Sitting between the sea and the buildings He enjoyed painting the sea's portrait. But just as children imagine a prayer Is merely silence, he expected his subject To rush up the sand, and, seizing a brush, Plaster its own portrait on the canvas. So there was never any paint on his canvas Until the people who lived in the buildings Put him to work: "Try using the brush As a means to an end. Select, for a portrait, Something less angry and large, and more subject To a painter's moods, or, perhaps, to a prayer." How could he explain to them his prayer That nature, not art, might usurp the canvas? He chose his wife for a new subject, Making her vast, like ruined buildings, As if, forgetting itself, the portrait Had expressed itself without a brush. Slightly encouraged, he dipped his brush In the sea, murmuring a heartfelt prayer: "My soul, when I paint this next portrait Let it be you who wrecks the canvas." The news spread like wildfire through the buildings: He had gone back to the sea for his subject. Imagine a painter crucified by his subject! Too exhausted even to lift his brush, He provoked some artists leaning from the buildings To malicious mirth: "We haven't a prayer Now, of putting ourselves on canvas, Or getting the sea to sit for a portrait!" Others declared it a self-portrait. Finally all indications of a subject Began to fade, leaving the canvas Perfectly white. He put down the brush. At once a howl, that was also a prayer, Arose from the overcrowded buildings. They tossed him, the portrait, from the tallest of the buildings; And the sea devoured the canvas and the brush As though his subject had decided to remain a prayer.

Lord Byron, "So We'll Go No more a-Roving,"

So, we'll go no more a roving So late into the night, Though the heart be still as loving, And the moon be still as bright. For the sword outwears its sheath, And the soul wears out the breast, And the heart must pause to breathe, And love itself have rest. Though the night was made for loving, And the day returns too soon, Yet we'll go no more a roving By the light of the moon.

"Tell All The Truth But Tell It Slant" - Emily Dickinson

Tell all the truth but tell it slant — Success in Circuit lies Too bright for our infirm Delight The Truth's superb surprise As Lightning to the Children eased With explanation kind The Truth must dazzle gradually Or every man be blind —

William Butler Yeats, "Sailing to Byzantium,"

That is no country for old men. The young In one another's arms, birds in the trees, —Those dying generations—at their song, The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas, Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long Whatever is begotten, born, and dies. Caught in that sensual music all neglect Monuments of unageing intellect. II An aged man is but a paltry thing, A tattered coat upon a stick, unless Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing For every tatter in its mortal dress, Nor is there singing school but studying Monuments of its own magnificence; And therefore I have sailed the seas and come To the holy city of Byzantium. III O sages standing in God's holy fire As in the gold mosaic of a wall, Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre, And be the singing-masters of my soul. Consume my heart away; sick with desire And fastened to a dying animal It knows not what it is; and gather me Into the artifice of eternity. IV Once out of nature I shall never take My bodily form from any natural thing, But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make Of hammered gold and gold enamelling To keep a drowsy Emperor awake; Or set upon a golden bough to sing To lords and ladies of Byzantium Of what is past, or passing, or to come.

Browning, "My Last Duchess,"

That's my last Duchess painted on the wall, Looking as if she were alive. I call That piece a wonder, now; Fra Pandolf's hands Worked busily a day, and there she stands. Will't please you sit and look at her? I said "Fra Pandolf" by design, for never read Strangers like you that pictured countenance, The depth and passion of its earnest glance, But to myself they turned (since none puts by The curtain I have drawn for you, but I) And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst, How such a glance came there; so, not the first Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 'twas not Her husband's presence only, called that spot Of joy into the Duchess' cheek; perhaps Fra Pandolf chanced to say, "Her mantle laps Over my lady's wrist too much," or "Paint Must never hope to reproduce the faint Half-flush that dies along her throat." Such stuff Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough For calling up that spot of joy. She had A heart—how shall I say?— too soon made glad, Too easily impressed; she liked whate'er She looked on, and her looks went everywhere. Sir, 'twas all one! My favour at her breast, The dropping of the daylight in the West, The bough of cherries some officious fool Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule She rode with round the terrace—all and each Would draw from her alike the approving speech, Or blush, at least. She thanked men—good! but thanked Somehow—I know not how—as if she ranked My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame This sort of trifling? Even had you skill In speech—which I have not—to make your will Quite clear to such an one, and say, "Just this Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss, Or there exceed the mark"—and if she let Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse— E'en then would be some stooping; and I choose Never to stoop. Oh, sir, she smiled, no doubt, Whene'er I passed her; but who passed without Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands; Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands As if alive. Will't please you rise? We'll meet The company below, then. I repeat, The Count your master's known munificence Is ample warrant that no just pretense Of mine for dowry will be disallowed; Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed At starting, is my object. Nay, we'll go Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though, Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity, Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!

"The Bible is an Antique Volume" - Emily i

The Bible is an antique Volume—Written by faded menAt the suggestion of Holy Spectres—Subjects—Bethlehem&mdash ;Eden—the ancient Homestead—Satan—the Brigadier—Judas—the Great Defaulter—David—the Troubador—Sin—a distinguished PrecipiceOthers must resist—Boys that "believe" are very lonesome—Other Boys are "lost"—Had but the Tale a warbling Teller—All the Boys would come—Orpheus' Sermon captivated—It did not condemn—

"We Real Cool," -Gwen Brooks

The Pool Players.Seven at the Golden Shovel. We real cool. We Left school. We Lurk late. We Strike straight. We Sing sin. We Thin gin. We Jazz June. We Die soon.

Theme for English B Langston Hughes

The instructor said, Go home and write a page tonight. And let that page come out of you— Then, it will be true. I wonder if it's that simple? I am twenty-two, colored, born in Winston-Salem. I went to school there, then Durham, then here to this college on the hill above Harlem. I am the only colored student in my class. The steps from the hill lead down into Harlem, through a park, then I cross St. Nicholas, Eighth Avenue, Seventh, and I come to the Y, the Harlem Branch Y, where I take the elevator up to my room, sit down, and write this page: It's not easy to know what is true for you or me at twenty-two, my age. But I guess I'm what I feel and see and hear, Harlem, I hear you. hear you, hear me—we two—you, me, talk on this page. (I hear New York, too.) Me—who? Well, I like to eat, sleep, drink, and be in love. I like to work, read, learn, and understand life. I like a pipe for a Christmas present, or records—Bessie, bop, or Bach. I guess being colored doesn't make me not like the same things other folks like who are other races. So will my page be colored that I write? Being me, it will not be white. But it will be a part of you, instructor. You are white— yet a part of me, as I am a part of you. That's American. Sometimes perhaps you don't want to be a part of me. Nor do I often want to be a part of you. But we are, that's true! As I learn from you, I guess you learn from me— although you're older—and white— and somewhat more free. This is my page for English B.

"Medgar Evers," - Gwen Brooks

The man whose height his fear improved hearranged to fear no further. The rawintoxicated time was time for better birth ora final death. Old styles, old tempos, all the engagement ofthe day-the sedate, the regulated fray-the antique light, the Moral rose, old gusts,tight whistlings from the past, the mothballsin the Love at last our man forswore. Medgar Evers annoyed confetti and assortedbrands of businessmen's eyes. The shows came down: to maxims and surprise.And palsy. Roaring no rapt arise-ye to the dead, heleaned across tomorrow. People said thathe was holding clean globes in his hands.

Robert Browning, "Prophyria's Lover,"

The rain set early in to-night, The sullen wind was soon awake, It tore the elm-tops down for spite, And did its worst to vex the lake: I listened with heart fit to break. When glided in Porphyria; straight She shut the cold out and the storm, And kneeled and made the cheerless grate Blaze up, and all the cottage warm; Which done, she rose, and from her form Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl, And laid her soiled gloves by, untied Her hat and let the damp hair fall, And, last, she sat down by my side And called me. When no voice replied, She put my arm about her waist, And made her smooth white shoulder bare, And all her yellow hair displaced, And, stooping, made my cheek lie there, And spread, o'er all, her yellow hair, Murmuring how she loved me — she Too weak, for all her heart's endeavour, To set its struggling passion free From pride, and vainer ties dissever, And give herself to me for ever. But passion sometimes would prevail, Nor could to-night's gay feast restrain A sudden thought of one so pale For love of her, and all in vain: So, she was come through wind and rain. Be sure I looked up at her eyes Happy and proud; at last I knew Porphyria worshipped me; surprise Made my heart swell, and still it grew While I debated what to do. That moment she was mine, mine, fair, Perfectly pure and good: I found A thing to do, and all her hair In one long yellow string I wound Three times her little throat around, And strangled her. No pain felt she; I am quite sure she felt no pain. As a shut bud that holds a bee, I warily oped her lids: again Laughed the blue eyes without a stain. And I untightened next the tress About her neck; her cheek once more Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss: I propped her head up as before, Only, this time my shoulder bore Her head, which droops upon it still: The smiling rosy little head, So glad it has its utmost will, That all it scorned at once is fled, And I, its love, am gained instead! Porphyria's love: she guessed not how Her darling one wish would be heard. And thus we sit together now, And all night long we have not stirred, And yet God has not said a word!

At the Tourist Center in Boston, - margaret Atwood

There is my country under glass,a white relief -map with red dots for the cities,reduced to the size of a wall and beside it 10 blownup snapshotsone for each province,in purple-browns and odd reds,the green of the trees dulled;all blues howeverof an assertive purity. Mountains and lakes and more lakes(though Quebec is a restaurant and Ontario the emptyinterior of the parliament buildings),with nobody climbing the trails and hauling outthe fish and splashing in the water but arrangements of grinning tourists-look here, Saskatchewanis a flat lake, some convenient rockswhere two children pose with a fatherand the mother is cooking somethingin immaculate slacks by a smokeless fire,her teeth white as detergent. Whose dream is this, I would like to know:is this a manufacturedhallucination, a cynical fiction, a lurefor export only? I seem to remember people,at least in the cities, also slush,machines and assorted garbage. Perhapsthat was my private miragewhich will just evaporatewhen I go back. Or the citizens will be gone,run off to the peculiarly-green foreststo wait among the brownish mountainsfor the platoons of touristsand plan their old red massacres. Unsuspectingwindow lady, I ask you: Do you see nothingwatching you from under the water? Was the sky ever that blue? Who really lives there?

Gwendolyn Brooks, "The Bean Eaters,"

They eat beans mostly, this old yellow pair. Dinner is a casual affair. Plain chipware on a plain and creaking wood, Tin flatware. Two who are Mostly Good. Two who have lived their day, But keep on putting on their clothes And putting things away. And remembering ... Remembering, with twinklings and twinges, As they lean over the beans in their rented back room that is full of beads and receipts and dolls and cloths, tobacco crumbs, vases and fringes.

Louis Gluck, "Gretel in Darkness,

This is the world we wanted. All who would have seen us dead are dead. I hear the witch's cry break in the moonlight through a sheet of sugar: God rewards. Her tongue shrivels into gas .... Now, far from women's arms and memory of women, in our father's hut we sleep, are never hungry. Why do I not forget? My father bars the door, bars harm from this house, and it is years. No one remembers. Even you, summer afternoons you look at me as though you meant to leave, as though it never happened. But I killed for you. I see armed firs, the spires of that gleaming kiln - Nights I turn to you to hold me but you are not there. Am I alone? Spies hiss in the stillness, Hansel, we are there still and it is real, real, that black forest and the fire in earnest.

Ashbery, "Paradoxes and Oxymorons,

This poem is concerned with language on a very plain level. Look at it talking to you. You look out a window Or pretend to fidget. You have it but you don't have it. You miss it, it misses you. You miss each other. The poem is sad because it wants to be yours, and cannot. What's a plain level? It is that and other things, Bringing a system of them into play. Play? Well, actually, yes, but I consider play to be A deeper outside thing, a dreamed role-pattern, As in the division of grace these long August days Without proof. Open-ended. And before you know It gets lost in the steam and chatter of typewriters. It has been played once more. I think you exist only To tease me into doing it, on your level, and then you aren't there Or have adopted a different attitude. And the poem Has set me softly down beside you. The poem is you.

The Divine Image - William Blake

To Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love All pray in their distress; And to these virtues of delight Return their thankfulness. For Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love Is God, our father dear, And Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love Is Man, his child and care. For Mercy has a human heart, Pity a human face, And Love, the human form divine, And Peace, the human dress. Then every man, of every clime, That prays in his distress, Prays to the human form divine, Love, Mercy, Pity, Peace. And all must love the human form, In heathen, Turk, or Jew; Where Mercy, Love, and Pity dwell There God is dwelling too.

Robert Frost, "The Road Not Taken,"

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth; Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim, Because it was grassy and wanted wear; Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same, And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back. I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I— I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.

The Tyger - William Blake

Tyger Tyger, burning bright, In the forests of the night; What immortal hand or eye, Could frame thy fearful symmetry? In what distant deeps or skies. Burnt the fire of thine eyes? On what wings dare he aspire? What the hand, dare seize the fire? And what shoulder, & what art, Could twist the sinews of thy heart? And when thy heart began to beat, What dread hand? & what dread feet? What the hammer? what the chain, In what furnace was thy brain? What the anvil? what dread grasp, Dare its deadly terrors clasp! When the stars threw down their spears And water'd heaven with their tears: Did he smile his work to see? Did he who made the Lamb make thee? Tyger Tyger burning bright, In the forests of the night: What immortal hand or eye, Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

"When You Are Old" - William Bulter Yeats

When you are old and grey and full of sleep, And nodding by the fire, take down this book, And slowly read, and dream of the soft look Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep; How many loved your moments of glad grace, And loved your beauty with love false or true, But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face; And bending down beside the glowing bars, Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled And paced upon the mountains overhead And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

John Asbery, "The Dong with the Luminous Nose,"

Within a windowed niche of that high hallI wake and feel the fell of dark, not day.I shall rush out as I am, and walk the streetThe lights begin to twinkle from the rocksFrom camp to camp, through the foul womb of night.Come, Shepherd, and again renew the quest.And birds sit brooding in the snow.Continuous as the stars that shine,When all men were asleep the snow came flyingNear where the dirty Thames does flowThrough caverns measureless to man,Where thou shalt see the red-gilled fishes leapAnd a lovely Monkey with lollipop pawsWhere the remote Bermudas ride.Softly, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me:This is the cock that crowed in the morn.Who'll be the parson?Beppo! That beard of yours becomes you not!A gentle answer did the old Man make:Farewell, ungrateful traitor,Bright as a seedsman's packetWhere the quiet-coloured end of evening smiles.Obscurest night involved the skyAnd brickdust Moll had screamed through half a street:"Look in my face; my name is Might-have-been,Sylvan historian, who canst thus expressEvery night and alle,The happy highways where I wentTo the hills of Chankly Bore!"Where are you going to, my pretty maid?These lovers fled away into the stormAnd it's O dear, what can the matter be?For the wind is in the palm-trees, and the temple bells they say:Lay your sleeping head, my love,On the wide level of the mountain's head,Thoughtless as monarch oaks, that shade the plain,In autumn, on the skirts of Bagley Wood.A ship is floating in the harbour now,Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life!

John Milton, "Lycidas,"

Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere, I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude, And with forc'd fingers rude Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year. Bitter constraint and sad occasion dear Compels me to disturb your season due; For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime, Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer. Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knew Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme. He must not float upon his wat'ry bier Unwept, and welter to the parching wind, Without the meed of some melodious tear. Begin then, Sisters of the sacred well That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring; Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string. Hence with denial vain and coy excuse! So may some gentle muse With lucky words favour my destin'd urn, And as he passes turn And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud! For we were nurs'd upon the self-same hill, Fed the same flock, by fountain, shade, and rill; Together both, ere the high lawns appear'd Under the opening eyelids of the morn, We drove afield, and both together heard What time the gray-fly winds her sultry horn, Batt'ning our flocks with the fresh dews of night, Oft till the star that rose at ev'ning bright Toward heav'n's descent had slop'd his westering wheel. Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute, Temper'd to th'oaten flute; Rough Satyrs danc'd, and Fauns with clov'n heel, From the glad sound would not be absent long; And old Damætas lov'd to hear our song. But O the heavy change now thou art gone, Now thou art gone, and never must return! Thee, Shepherd, thee the woods and desert caves, With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown, And all their echoes mourn. The willows and the hazel copses green Shall now no more be seen Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays. As killing as the canker to the rose, Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze, Or frost to flowers that their gay wardrobe wear When first the white thorn blows: Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherd's ear. Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless deep Clos'd o'er the head of your lov'd Lycidas? For neither were ye playing on the steep Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie, Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high, Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream. Ay me! I fondly dream Had ye bin there'—for what could that have done? What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore, The Muse herself, for her enchanting son, Whom universal nature did lament, When by the rout that made the hideous roar His gory visage down the stream was sent, Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore? Alas! what boots it with incessant care To tend the homely, slighted shepherd's trade, And strictly meditate the thankless Muse? Were it not better done, as others use, To sport with Amaryllis in the shade, Or with the tangles of Neæra's hair? Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise (That last infirmity of noble mind) To scorn delights and live laborious days; But the fair guerdon when we hope to find, And think to burst out into sudden blaze, Comes the blind Fury with th'abhorred shears, And slits the thin-spun life. "But not the praise," Phoebus replied, and touch'd my trembling ears; "Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil, Nor in the glistering foil Set off to th'world, nor in broad rumour lies, But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes And perfect witness of all-judging Jove; As he pronounces lastly on each deed, Of so much fame in Heav'n expect thy meed." O fountain Arethuse, and thou honour'd flood, Smooth-sliding Mincius, crown'd with vocal reeds, That strain I heard was of a higher mood. But now my oat proceeds, And listens to the Herald of the Sea, That came in Neptune's plea. He ask'd the waves, and ask'd the felon winds, "What hard mishap hath doom'd this gentle swain?" And question'd every gust of rugged wings That blows from off each beaked promontory. They knew not of his story; And sage Hippotades their answer brings, That not a blast was from his dungeon stray'd; The air was calm, and on the level brine Sleek Panope with all her sisters play'd. It was that fatal and perfidious bark, Built in th'eclipse, and rigg'd with curses dark, That sunk so low that sacred head of thine. Next Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow, His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge, Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge Like to that sanguine flower inscrib'd with woe. "Ah! who hath reft," quoth he, "my dearest pledge?" Last came, and last did go, The Pilot of the Galilean lake; Two massy keys he bore of metals twain (The golden opes, the iron shuts amain). He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake: "How well could I have spar'd for thee, young swain, Enow of such as for their bellies' sake Creep and intrude, and climb into the fold? Of other care they little reck'ning make Than how to scramble at the shearers' feast And shove away the worthy bidden guest. Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how to hold A sheep-hook, or have learn'd aught else the least That to the faithful herdman's art belongs! What recks it them? What need they? They are sped; And when they list their lean and flashy songs Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw, The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed, But, swoll'n with wind and the rank mist they draw, Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread; Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw Daily devours apace, and nothing said, But that two-handed engine at the door Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more". Return, Alpheus: the dread voice is past That shrunk thy streams; return, Sicilian Muse, And call the vales and bid them hither cast Their bells and flow'rets of a thousand hues. Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use Of shades and wanton winds, and gushing brooks, On whose fresh lap the swart star sparely looks, Throw hither all your quaint enamel'd eyes, That on the green turf suck the honied showers And purple all the ground with vernal flowers. Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies, The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine, The white pink, and the pansy freak'd with jet, The glowing violet, The musk-rose, and the well attir'd woodbine, With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head, And every flower that sad embroidery wears; Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed, And daffadillies fill their cups with tears, To strew the laureate hearse where Lycid lies. For so to interpose a little ease, Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise. Ay me! Whilst thee the shores and sounding seas Wash far away, where'er thy bones are hurl'd; Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides, Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide Visit'st the bottom of the monstrous world, Or whether thou, to our moist vows denied, Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old, Where the great vision of the guarded mount Looks toward Namancos and Bayona's hold: Look homeward Angel now, and melt with ruth; And, O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth. Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep no more, For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead, Sunk though he be beneath the wat'ry floor; So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed, And yet anon repairs his drooping head, And tricks his beams, and with new spangled ore Flames in the forehead of the morning sky: So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high Through the dear might of him that walk'd the waves; Where, other groves and other streams along, With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves, And hears the unexpressive nuptial song, In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love. There entertain him all the Saints above, In solemn troops, and sweet societies, That sing, and singing in their glory move, And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes. Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more: Henceforth thou art the Genius of the shore, In thy large recompense, and shalt be good To all that wander in that perilous flood. Thus sang the uncouth swain to th'oaks and rills, While the still morn went out with sandals gray; He touch'd the tender stops of various quills, With eager thought warbling his Doric lay; And now the sun had stretch'd out all the hills, And now was dropp'd into the western bay; At last he rose, and twitch'd his mantle blue: To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new.

ee cummings, "anyone lived in a pretty how town,"

anyone lived in a pretty how town (with up so floating many bells down) spring summer autumn winter he sang his didn't he danced his did. Women and men(both little and small) cared for anyone not at all they sowed their isn't they reaped their same sun moon stars rain children guessed(but only a few and down they forgot as up they grew autumn winter spring summer) that noone loved him more by more when by now and tree by leaf she laughed his joy she cried his grief bird by snow and stir by still anyone's any was all to her someones married their everyones laughed their cryings and did their dance (sleep wake hope and then)they said their nevers they slept their dream stars rain sun moon (and only the snow can begin to explain how children are apt to forget to remember with up so floating many bells down) one day anyone died i guess (and noone stooped to kiss his face) busy folk buried them side by side little by little and was by was all by all and deep by deep and more by more they dream their sleep noone and anyone earth by april wish by spirit and if by yes. Women and men(both dong and ding) summer autumn winter spring reaped their sowing and went their came sun moon stars rain

Aphra Behn, "To the Fair Clarinda"

fair lovely Maid, or if that Title beToo weak, too Feminine for Nobler thee,Permit a Name that more Approaches Truth:And let me call thee, Lovely Charming Youth.This last will justifie my soft complaint,While that may serve to lessen my constraint;And without Blushes I the Youth persue,When so much beauteous Woman is in view.Against thy Charms we struggle but in vainWith thy deluding Form thou giv'st us pain,While the bright Nymph betrays us to the Swain.In pity to our Sex sure thou wer't sent,That we might Love, and yet be Innocent:For sure no Crime with thee we can commit;Or if we shou'd - thy Form excuses it.For who, that gathers fairest Flowers believesA Snake lies hid beneath the Fragrant Leaves.Though beauteous Wonder of a different kind,Soft Cloris with the dear Alexis join'd;When e'er the Manly part of thee, wou'd pleadThough tempts us with the Image of the Maid,While we the noblest Passions do extendThe Love to Hermes, Aphrodite the Friend.v

In "The Red Wheelbarrow" by William Carlos Williams

so much depends upon a red wheel barrow glazed with rain water beside the white chickens