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A Song at the End
by Jaroslav Seifert
Listen: about little Hendele. She came back to me yesterday and she was twenty-four already. And as graceful as Shulamite.
She wore an ash-gray squirrel fur and a pert little cap and round her neck she'd tied a scarf the colour of pale smoke.
Hendele, how well this suits you! I thought that you were dead and meanwhile you have grown more beautiful. I am glad you’ve come!
How wrong you are, dear friend! I've been dead twenty years, and very well you know it. I've only come to meet you
Prayer to Persephone
by Edna St. Vincent Millay
Be to her, Persephone, All the things I might not be: Take her head upon your knee. She that was so proud and wild, Flippant, arrogant and free, She that had no need of me, Is a little lonely child Lost in Hell,—Persephone, Take her head upon your knee: Say to her, "My dear, my dear, It is not so dreadful here."
First Fig
by Edna St. Vincent Millay
My candle burns at both ends;
It will not last the night;
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends---
It gives a lovely light!
The Spring and the Fall
by Edna St. Vincent Millay
In the spring of the year, in the spring of the year, I walked the road beside my dear. The trees were black where the bark was wet. I see them yet, in the spring of the year. He broke me a bough of the blossoming peach That was out of the way and hard to reach.
In the fall of the year, in the fall of the year, I walked the road beside my dear. The rooks went up with a raucous trill. I hear them still, in the fall of the year. He laughed at all I dared to praise, And broke my heart, in little ways.
Year be springing or year be falling, The bark will drip and the birds be calling. There's much that's fine to see and hear In the spring of a year, in the fall of a year. 'Tis not love's going hurt my days. But that it went in little ways.
Eulalie
by Edgar Allan Poe
I dwelt alone In a world of moan, And my soul was a stagnant tide, Till the fair and gentle Eulalie became my blushing bride-- Till the yellow-haired young Eulalie became my smiling bride.
Ah, less--less bright The stars of the night Than the eyes of the radiant girl! That the vapor can make With the moon-tints of purple and pearl, Can vie with the modest Eulalie's most unregarded curl- Can compare with the bright-eyed Eulalie's most humble and careless curl.
Now Doubt--now Pain Come never again, For her soul gives me sigh for sigh, And all day long Shines, bright and strong, Astarte within the sky, While ever to her dear Eulalie upturns her matron eye-- While ever to her young Eulalie upturns her violet eye.
The Secret of the Sea
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Ah! what pleasant visions haunt me As I gaze upon the sea! All the old romantic legends, All my dreams, come back to me.
Sails of silk and ropes of sandal, Such as gleam in ancient lore; And the singing of the sailors, And the answer from the shore!
Most of all, the Spanish ballad Haunts me oft, and tarries long, Of the noble Count Arnaldos And the sailor's mystic song.
Like the long waves on a sea-beach, Where the sand as silver shines, With a soft, monotonous cadence, Flow its unrhymed lyric lines:--
Telling how the Count Arnaldos, With his hawk upon his hand, Saw a fair and stately galley, Steering onward to the land;--
How he heard the ancient helmsman Chant a song so wild and clear, That the sailing sea-bird slowly Poised upon the mast to hear,
Till his soul was full of longing, And he cried, with impulse strong,-- "Helmsman! for the love of heaven, Teach me, too, that wondrous song!"
"Wouldst thou,"--so the helmsman answered, "Learn the secret of the sea? Only those who brave its dangers Comprehend its mystery!"
In each sail that skims the horizon, In each landward-blowing breeze, I behold that stately galley, Hear those mournful melodies;
Till my soul is full of longing For the secret of the sea, And the heart of the great ocean Sends a thrilling pulse through me.
Marriage
by Gregory Corso
Should I get married? Should I be good? Astound the girl next door with my velvet suit and faustus hood? Don't take her to movies but to cemeteries tell all about werewolf bathtubs and forked clarinets then desire her and kiss her and all the preliminaries and she going just so far and I understanding why not getting angry saying You must feel! It's beautiful to feel! Instead take her in my arms lean against an old crooked tombstone and woo her the entire night the constellations in the sky-
When she introduces me to her parents back straightened, hair finally combed, strangled by a tie, should I sit with my knees together on their 3rd degree sofa and not ask Where's the bathroom? How else to feel other than I am, often thinking Flash Gordon soap- O how terrible it must be for a young man seated before a family and the family thinking We never saw him before! He wants our Mary Lou! After tea and homemade cookies they ask What do you do for a living?
Should I tell them? Would they like me then? Say All right get married, we're losing a daughter but we're gaining a son- And should I then ask Where's the bathroom?
O God, and the wedding! All her family and her friends and only a handful of mine all scroungy and bearded just wait to get at the drinks and food- And the priest! he looking at me as if I masturbated asking me Do you take this woman for your lawful wedded wife? And I trembling what to say say Pie Glue! I kiss the bride all those corny men slapping me on the back She's all yours, boy! Ha-ha-ha! And in their eyes you could see some obscene honeymoon going on- Then all that absurd rice and clanky cans and shoes Niagara Falls! Hordes of us! Husbands! Wives! Flowers! Chocolates! All streaming into cozy hotels All going to do the same thing tonight The indifferent clerk he knowing what was going to happen The lobby zombies they knowing what The whistling elevator man he knowing Everybody knowing! I'd almost be inclined not to do anything! Stay up all night! Stare that hotel clerk in the eye! Screaming: I deny honeymoon! I deny honeymoon! running rampant into those almost climactic suites yelling Radio belly! Cat shovel! O I'd live in Niagara forever! in a dark cave beneath the Falls I'd sit there the Mad Honeymooner devising ways to break marriages, a scourge of bigamy a saint of divorce-
But I should get married I should be good How nice it'd be to come home to her and sit by the fireplace and she in the kitchen aproned young and lovely wanting my baby and so happy about me she burns the roast beef and comes crying to me and I get up from my big papa chair saying Christmas teeth! Radiant brains! Apple deaf! God what a husband I'd make! Yes, I should get married! So much to do! Like sneaking into Mr Jones' house late at night and cover his golf clubs with 1920 Norwegian books Like hanging a picture of Rimbaud on the lawnmower like pasting Tannu Tuva postage stamps all over the picket fence like when Mrs Kindhead comes to collect for the Community Chest grab her and tell her There are unfavorable omens in the sky! And when the mayor comes to get my vote tell him When are you going to stop people killing whales! And when the milkman comes leave him a note in the bottle Penguin dust, bring me penguin dust, I want penguin dust-
Yes if I should get married and it's Connecticut and snow and she gives birth to a child and I am sleepless, worn, up for nights, head bowed against a quiet window, the past behind me, finding myself in the most common of situations a trembling man knowledged with responsibility not twig-smear nor Roman coin soup- O what would that be like! Surely I'd give it for a nipple a rubber Tacitus For a rattle a bag of broken Bach records Tack Della Francesca all over its crib Sew the Greek alphabet on its bib And build for its playpen a roofless Parthenon
No, I doubt I'd be that kind of father Not rural not snow no quiet window but hot smelly tight New York City seven flights up, roaches and rats in the walls a fat Reichian wife screeching over potatoes Get a job! And five nose running brats in love with Batman And the neighbors all toothless and dry haired like those hag masses of the 18th century all wanting to come in and watch TV The landlord wants his rent Grocery store Blue Cross Gas & Electric Knights of Columbus impossible to lie back and dream Telephone snow, ghost parking- No! I should not get married! I should never get married! But-imagine if I were married to a beautiful sophisticated woman tall and pale wearing an elegant black dress and long black gloves holding a cigarette holder in one hand and a highball in the other and we lived high up in a penthouse with a huge window from which we could see all of New York and even farther on clearer days No, can't imagine myself married to that pleasant prison dream-
O but what about love? I forget love not that I am incapable of love It's just that I see love as odd as wearing shoes- I never wanted to marry a girl who was like my mother And Ingrid Bergman was always impossible And there's maybe a girl now but she's already married And I don't like men and- But there's got to be somebody! Because what if I'm 60 years old and not married, all alone in a furnished room with pee stains on my underwear and everybody else is married! All the universe married but me!
Ah, yet well I know that were a woman possible as I am possible then marriage would be possible- Like SHE in her lonely alien gaud waiting her Egyptian lover so i wait-bereft of 2,000 years and the bath of life.
Into My Heart an Air That Kills by A.E. Housman
Into my heart an air that kills From yon far country blows: What are those blue remembered hills, What spires, what farms are those?
That is the land of lost content, I see it shining plain, The happy highways where I went And cannot come again.
The Kiss
by Anne Sexton
My mouth blooms like a cut. I've been wronged all year, tedious nights, nothing but rough elbows in them and delicate boxes of Kleenex calling crybaby crybaby, you fool!
Before today my body was useless. Now it's tearing at its square corners. It's tearing old Mary's garments off, knot by knot and see - Now it's shot full of these electric bolts. Zing! A resurrection!
Once it was a boat, quite wooden and with no business, no salt water under it and in need of some paint. It was no more than a group of boards. But you hoisted her, rigged her. She's been elected.
My nerves are turned on. I hear them like musical instruments. Where there was silence the drums, the strings are incurably playing. You did this. Pure genius at work. Darling, the composer has stepped into fire.
River Roads
by Carl Sandburg
LET the crows go by hawking their caw and caw.
They have been swimming in midnights of coal mines somewhere.
Let 'em hawk their caw and caw.
Let the woodpecker drum and drum on a hickory stump.
He has been swimming in red and blue pools somewhere hundreds of years
And the blue has gone to his wings and the red has gone to his head.
Let his red head drum and drum.
Let the dark pools hold the birds in a looking-glass.
And if the pool wishes, let it shiver to the blur of many wings, old swimmers from old places.
Let the redwing streak a line of vermillion on the green wood lines.
And the mist along the river fix its purple in lines of a woman's shawl on lazy shoulders.
Wraith
by Edna St. Vincent Millay
"Thin Rain, whom are you haunting, That you haunt my door?" --Surely it is not I she's wanting; Someone living here before-- "Nobody's in the house but me: You may come in if you like and see."
Thin as thread, with exquisite fingers,-- Have you seen her, any of you?-- Grey shawl, and leaning on the wind, And the garden showing through?
Glimmering eyes,--and silent, mostly, Sort of a whisper, sort of a purr, Asking something, asking it over,
If you get a sound from her.--
Ever see her, any of you?-- Strangest thing I've ever known,-- Every night since I moved in, And I came to be alone.
"Thin Rain, hush with your knocking! You may not come in! This is I that you hear rocking; Nobody's with me, nor has been!"
Curious, how she tried the window,-- Odd, the way she tries the door,-- Wonder just what sort of people
Could have had this house before . . .
Symphony In Yellow
by Oscar Wilde
An omnibus across the bridge Crawls like a yellow butterfly, And, here and there, a passer-by Shows like a little restless midge.
Big barges full of yellow hay Are moored against the shadowy wharf, And, like a yellow silken scarf, The thick fog hangs along the quay.
The yellow leaves begin to fade And flutter from the Temple elms, And at my feet the pale green Thames Lies like a rod of rippled jade.
Lady Lazarus
by Sylvia Plath
I have done it again. One year in every ten I manage it----
A sort of walking miracle, my skin Bright as a Nazi lampshade, My right foot
A paperweight, My face a featureless, fine Jew linen.
Peel off the napkin 0 my enemy. Do I terrify?----
The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth? The sour breath Will vanish in a day.
Soon, soon the flesh The grave cave ate will be At home on me
And I a smiling woman. I am only thirty. And like the cat I have nine times to die.
This is Number Three. What a trash To annihilate each decade.
What a million filaments. The peanut-crunching crowd Shoves in to see
Them unwrap me hand and foot The big strip tease. Gentlemen, ladies
These are my hands My knees. I may be skin and bone,
Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman. The first time it happened I was ten. It was an accident.
The second time I meant To last it out and not come back at all. I rocked shut
As a seashell. They had to call and call And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.
Dying Is an art, like everything else, I do it exceptionally well.
I do it so it feels like hell. I do it so it feels real. I guess you could say I've a call.
It's easy enough to do it in a cell. It's easy enough to do it and stay put. It's the theatrical
Comeback in broad day To the same place, the same face, the same brute Amused shout:
'A miracle!' That knocks me out. There is a charge
For the eying of my scars, there is a charge For the hearing of my heart---- It really goes.
And there is a charge, a very large charge For a word or a touch Or a bit of blood
Or a piece of my hair or my clothes. So, so, Herr Doktor. So, Herr Enemy.
I am your opus, I am your valuable, The pure gold baby
That melts to a shriek. I turn and burn. Do not think I underestimate your great concern.
Ash, ash --- You poke and stir. Flesh, bone, there is nothing there----
A cake of soap, A wedding ring, A gold filling.
Herr God, Herr Lucifer Beware Beware.
Out of the ash I rise with my red hair And I eat men like air.
Evening Star
by Edgar Allan Poe
'Twas noontide of summer, And mid-time of night; And stars, in their orbits, Shone pale, thro' the light Of the brighter, cold moon, 'Mid planets her slaves, Herself in the Heavens, Her beam on the waves. I gazed awhile On her cold smile; Too cold—too cold for me— There pass'd, as a shroud, A fleecy cloud, And I turned away to thee, Proud Evening Star, In thy glory afar, And dearer thy beam shall be; For joy to my heart Is the proud part Thou bearest in Heaven at night, And more I admire Thy distant fire, Than that colder, lowly light.
Ode to Melancholy
by John Keats
| NO, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist |
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| Wolfs-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine; |
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| Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss'd |
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| By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine; |
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| Make not your rosary of yew-berries, |
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| Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be |
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| Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl |
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| A partner in your sorrow's mysteries; |
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| For shade to shade will come too drowsily, |
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| And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul. |
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2. But when the melancholy fit shall fall |
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| Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud, |
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| That fosters the droop-headed flowers all, |
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| And hides the green hill in an April shroud; |
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| Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose, |
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| Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave, |
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| Or on the wealth of globed peonies; |
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| Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows, |
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| Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave, |
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| And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes. |
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3. She dwells with Beauty--Beauty that must die; |
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| And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips |
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| Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh, |
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| Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips: |
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| Ay, in the very temple of Delight |
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| Veil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine, |
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| Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue |
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| Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine; |
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| His soul shall taste the sadness of her might, |
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| And be among her cloudy trophies hung. |
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She Walks in Beauty
by George Gordon Lord Byron
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
Upon a Lilac Sea
by Emily Dickinson
Upon a Lilac Sea To toss incessantly His Plush Alarm Who fleeing from the Spring The Spring avenging fling To Dooms of Balm
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
Fool
Sarah Cline
I thought love to be foolish
till a fool proved me wrong.
What a precious fool you are
to fall in love with me.
Fireflies in the Garden
Robert Frost
Here come real stars to fill the upper skies, And here on earth come emulating flies, That though they never equal stars in size, (And they were never really stars at heart) Achieve at times a very star-like start. Only, of course, they can't sustain the part.
I Will Lie Down
May Swenson
I will lie down in autumn let birds be flying
Swept into a hollow by the wind I'll wait for dying
I will lie inert unseen my hair same-colored with grass and leaves
Gather me for the autumn fires with the withered sheaves
I will sleep face down in the burnt meadow not hearing the sound of water over stones
Trail over me cloud and shadow Let snow hide the whiteness of my bones.
Grass
Carl Sandburg
Pile the bodies high at Austerlitz and Waterloo. Shovel them under and let me work -
I am the grass; I cover all.
And pile them high at Gettysburg And pile them high at Ypres and Verdun. Shovel them under and let me work. Two years, ten years, and passengers ask the conductor:
What place is this? Where are we now?
I am the grass. Let me work.
The Cafe
Leonard Cohen
The beauty of my table.
The cracked marble top.
A brown-haired girl ten tables away.
Come with me.
I want to talk.
I've taken a drug that makes me want to talk.
April Rain Song
Langston Hughes
Let the rain kiss you Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops Let the rain sing you a lullaby The rain makes still pools on the sidewalk The rain makes running pools in the gutter The rain plays a little sleep song on our roof at night And I love the rain.
Ode to the Plum Blossom
Lu Yu
Outside the post-house, beside the broken bridge, Alone, deserted, a flower blooms. Saddened by her solitude in the falling dusk, She is now assailed by wind and rain. Let other flowers be envious! She craves not Spring for herself alone. Her petals may be ground in the mud, But her fragrance will endure.
Daffodils
William Wordsworth
I WANDER'D lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the Milky Way, They stretch'd in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: A poet could not but be gay, In such a jocund company: I gazed -- and gazed -- but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils.
We Real Cool
Gwendolyn 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.
Evangeline, A Tale of Arcadie* Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks, Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight, Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic, Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms.*Due to the length of this poem I just posted the part that inspired me the most, the rest of the poem can be found HERE.
Perfect Day
Lou Reed
Just a perfect day, Drink Sangria in the park, And then later, when it gets dark, We go home. Just a perfect day, Feed animals in the zoo Then later, a movie, too, And then home.
Oh it's such a perfect day, I'm glad I spent it with you. Oh such a perfect day, You just keep me hanging on, You just keep me hanging on.
Just a perfect day, Problems all left alone, Weekenders on our own. It's such fun. Just a perfect day, You made me forget myself. I thought I was someone else, Someone good.
Oh it's such a perfect day, I'm glad I spent it with you. Oh such a perfect day, You just keep me hanging on, You just keep me hanging on.
You're going to reap just what you sow, You're going to reap just what you sow, You're going to reap just what you sow, You're going to reap just what you sow...
Sea-Fever
by John Masefield
I must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky, And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by, And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking, And a grey mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn breaking.
I must down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied; And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying, And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.
I must down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life, To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife; And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.
The Mermaid by Alfred Lord Tennyson
Who would be A mermaid fair, Singing alone, Combing her hair Under the sea, In a golden curl With a comb of pearl, On a throne?
I would be a mermaid fair; I would sing to myself the whole of the day; With a comb of pearl I would comb my hair; And still as I comb'd I would sing and say, 'Who is it loves me? who loves not me?' I would comb my hair till my ringlets would fall Low adown, low adown, From under my starry sea-bud crown Low adown and around, And I should look like a fountain of gold Springing alone With a shrill inner sound Over the throne In the midst of the hall; Till that great sea-snake under the sea From his coiled sleeps in the central deeps Would slowly trail himself sevenfold Round the hall where I sate, and look in at the gate With his large calm eyes for the love of me. And all the mermen under the sea Would feel their immortality Die in their hearts for the love of me.
But at night I would wander away, away, I would fling on each side my low-flowing locks, And lightly vault from the throne and play With the mermen in and out of the rocks; We would run to and fro, and hide and seek, On the broad sea-wolds in the crimson shells, Whose silvery spikes are nighest the sea. But if any came near I would call and shriek, And adown the steep like a wave I would leap From the diamond-ledges that jut from the dells; For I would not be kiss'd by all who would list Of the bold merry mermen under the sea. They would sue me, and woo me, and flatter me, In the purple twilights under the sea; But the king of them all would carry me, Woo me, and win me, and marry me, In the branching jaspers under the sea. Then all the dry-pied things that be In the hueless mosses under the sea Would curl round my silver feet silently, All looking up for the love of me. And if I should carol aloud, from aloft All things that are forked, and horned, and soft Would lean out from the hollow sphere of the sea, All looking down for the love of me.
Purple Cow by Gelett Burgess
I never saw a Purple Cow, I never hope to see one. But I can tell you, anyhow, I'd rather see than be one.
Reply (To The "Purple Cow") by Gelett Burgess
Ah, yes, I wrote the "Purple Cow"-- I'm sorry, now, I wrote it! But I can tell you anyhow, I'll kill you if you quote it.
Kubla Khan or, A Vision in a Dream. A Fragment.
by Samuel Taylor 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.
With Rue My Heart Is Laden
by A.E. Housman
With rue my heart is laden For golden friends I had, For many a rose-lipt maiden And many a lightfoot lad. By brooks too broad for leaping The lightfoot boys are laid; The rose-lipt girls are sleeping In fields where roses fade.
Annabel Lee
by Edgar Allan Poe
It was many and many a year ago, In a kingdom by the sea, That a maiden there lived whom you may know By the name of ANNABEL LEE; And this maiden she lived with no other thought Than to love and be loved by me.
I was a child and she was a child, In this kingdom by the sea; But we loved with a love that was more than love- I and my Annabel Lee; With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven Coveted her and me.
And this was the reason that, long ago, In this kingdom by the sea, A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling My beautiful Annabel Lee; So that her highborn kinsman came And bore her away from me, To shut her up in a sepulchre In this kingdom by the sea.
The angels, not half so happy in heaven, Went envying her and me- Yes!- that was the reason (as all men know, In this kingdom by the sea) That the wind came out of the cloud by night, Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.
But our love it was stronger by far than the love Of those who were older than we- Of many far wiser than we- And neither the angels in heaven above, Nor the demons down under the sea, Can ever dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.
For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride, In the sepulchre there by the sea, In her tomb by the sounding sea.
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
by Robert Frost
Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow. My little horse must think it queer To stop without a farmhouse near Between the woods and frozen lake The darkest evening of the year. He gives his harness bells a shake To ask if there is some mistake. The only other sound's the sweep Of easy wind and downy flake. The woods are lovely, dark and deep. But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep.
This is the Time of Fire
by Elaine Maria Upton
There is a time of Water and a time of Wind. This is the time of Fire, and Fire eats time. The sands of the desert are uncountable! Let go of the reckoning! Let go of time! Let go of rain! Let go of forgiving!
Fire eats rain and Fire eats trees. Fire eats The leaves of corn. Fire is the grain and the husk Of corn. Fire is the raging of Water. Fire is the roar, the hum, the sting of Wind. Fire is the pepper pulsing from the flower. Fire is the frenzied volcano dancing. It is the lightning's blitz, the drumming, the singing, The beat of tribes, telling their story all night, Piercing the bottom of dark, birthing the light.
Fire is the Earth exhausted, folding, sleeping from days and nights of love, til there is no counting. When flowers bleed, when lions sleep, when angels sigh, oh bleed, oh sleep, oh sigh then! Oh, burn with mountains! When leaves flame and fall to the ground, When grass grows brown then gray, grieve not. Grieve not, but follow the eagle and follow the grass.
Weep not for the Earth. Weep not for the corn. The Earth is the lover who gives all to love. The Earth makes a bed of Love and the Sun knows. The Earth makes a table of Love and the Fire knows. The Earth feeds Fire. The Earth gives all to Love. Follow the Earth. Look beyond your eyes as you go! Follow the Earth to the beat of the Fire! Open your thighs. Give all to Love!
Negro Speaks of Rivers
by Langston Hughes
I've known rivers: I've known rivers ancient as the world and older than the flow of human blood in human rivers My soul has grown deep like the rivers.
I bathed in the Euphrates when dawns were young I built my hut near the Congo and it lulled me to sleep. I looked upon the Nile and raised the pyramids above it. I heard the singing of the Mississippi when Abe Lincoln went down to New Orleans, and I've seen its muddy bosom turn all golden in the sunset
I've known rivers: Ancient, dusky rivers.
My soul has grown deep like the rivers.
Tulips
by Sylvia Plath
The tulips are too excitable, it is winter here. Look how white everything is, how quiet, how snowed-in. I am learning peacefulness, lying by myself quietly As the light lies on these white walls, this bed, these hands. I am nobody; I have nothing to do with explosions. I have given my name and my day-clothes up to the nurses And my history to the anaesthetist and my body to surgeons.
They have propped my head between the pillow and the sheet-cuff Like an eye between two white lids that will not shut. Stupid pupil, it has to take everything in. The nurses pass and pass, they are no trouble, They pass the way gulls pass inland in their white caps Doing things with their hands, one just the same as another, So it is impossible to tell how many there are.
My body is a pebble to them, they tend it as water Tends to the pebbles it must run over, smoothing them gently. They bring me numbness in their bright needles, they bring me sleep. Now I have lost myself I am sick of baggage – My patent leather overnight case like a black pillbox, My husband and child smiling out of the family photo; Their smiles catch onto my skin, little smiling hooks.
I have let things slip, a thirty-year-old cargo boat Stubbornly hanging on to my name and address. They have swabbed me clear of my loving associations. Scared and bare on the green plastic-pillowed trolley I watched my tea-set, my bureaus of linen, my books Sink out of sight, and the water went over my head. I am a nun now, I have never been so pure.
I didn't want any flowers, I only wanted To lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty. How free it is, you have no idea how free – The peacefulness is so big it dazes you, And it asks nothing, a name tag, a few trinkets. It is what the dead close on, finally; I imagine them Shutting their mouths on it, like a Communion tablet.
The tulips are too red in the first place, they hurt me. Even through the gift paper I could hear them breathe Lightly, through their white swaddlings, like an awful baby. Their redness talks to my wound, it corresponds. They are subtle: they seem to float, though they weigh me down, Upsetting me with their sudden tongues and their colour, A dozen read lead sinkers round my neck.
Nobody watched me before, now I am watched. The tulips turn to me, and the window behind me Where once a day the light slowly widens and slowly thins, And I see myself, flat, ridiculous, a cut-paper shadow Between the eye of the sun and the eyes of the tulips, And I have no face, I have wanted to efface myself. The vivid tulips eat my oxygen.
Before they came the air was calm enough, Coming and going, breath by breath, without any fuss. Then the tulips filled it up like a loud noise. Now the air snags and eddies round them the way a river Snags and eddies round a sunken rust-red engine. They concentrate my attention, that was happy Playing and resting without committing itself.
The walls, also, seem to be warming themselves. The tulips should be behind bars like dangerous animals; They are opening like the mouth of some great African cat, And I am aware of my heart: it opens and closes Its bowl of red blooms out of sheer love of me. The water I taste is warm and salt, like the sea, And comes from a country far away as health.
The Raven
by Edgar Allan Poe
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. "'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door — Only this, and nothing more."
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow; — vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow — sorrow for the lost Lenore — For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore — Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me — filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, "'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door — Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; — This it is, and nothing more."
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, "Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you"— here I opened wide the door; — Darkness there, and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before; But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?" This I whi
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