2401 Poetry Exam
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61 terms
Terms | Definitions |
|---|---|
 Leda and the Swan | William Butler Yeats Rape/Seduction/Bestiality? -1st Stanza - very violent, lena trying to push him away, forced to feel his heart beat.. intimacy, shudders=orgasm, ecstasy - leads to trojan war from birth of helen -being so caught up... to end, he gets kids out of this, what does she get? outrageous, how can she get anything from being raped? Also, an encounter between human & divine, can she see something in future from lying so close to him/divine A sudden blow: the great wings beating still Above the staggering girl, her thighs caressed By the dark webs, her nape caught in his bill, He holds her helpless breast upon his breast. How can those terrified vague fingers push The feathered glory from her loosening thighs? And how can body, laid in that white rush, But feel the strange heart beating where it lies? A shudder in the loins engenders there The broken wall, the burning roof and tower[20] And Agamemnon dead. Being so caught up, So mastered by the brute blood of the air, Did she put on his knowledge with his power Before the indifferent beak could let her drop? |
| Once by the Pacific | Robert Frost, The shattered water made a misty din. Great waves looked over others coming in, And thought of doing something to the shore That water never did to land before. The clouds were low and hairy in the skies, Like locks blown forward in the gleam of eyes. You could not tell, and yet it looked as if The shore was lucky in being backed by cliff, The cliff in being backed by continent; It looked as if a night of dark intent Was coming, and not only a night, an age. Someone had better be prepared for rage. There would be more than ocean-water broken Before God's last Put out the Light was spoken. |
| Sir Patrick Spens | Author Unknown. Medeival Period. Fate (negative), Action/ Adventure, Duty. Folk Ballad The king sat in Dunfermline town, Drinking the blood red wine, "Oh where will I get a good sailor, To sail this ship of mine?" Up spoke an elderly knight, Sat at the king's right knee, "Sir Patrick Spence is the best sailor " That sails upon the sea. The king has written a broad letter And signed it with his hand, And sent it to Sir Patrick Spence, (Who) was walking on the sand. The first line that Sir Patrick read, A loud laugh laughed he, The next line that Sir Patrick read, The tears blinded his eye(s). "O who is this who has done this deed, This ill deed done to me, To send me out at this time of year, To sail upon the sea. "Make haste, make haste, my merry men all, Our good ship sails in the morning." "Oh say no, say, my master dear, For I fear a deadly storm. "Late, late yesterday evening, I saw the new moon With the old moon in her arm, And I fear, I fear, my dear master, that we will come to harm." O our Scots nobles were right loath To wet their cork-heeled shoes, But long before all the play was played, Their hats they swam around. O long, long may their ladies sit, With their fans in their hands, Ere they see Sir Patrick Spence, Come sailing to the land. O long, long may the ladies stand, With their gold combs in their hair, Waiting for their own dear lords, For they will see them no more. Half over, half over to Aberdour, It's fifty fathoms deep, And there lies good Sir Patrick Spence, With the good lords at his feet. |
| Lord Randal | Anon. "O where ha you been, Lord Randal, my son? And where ha you been, my handsome young man?" "I ha been at the greenwood; mother, mak my bed soon, For I'm wearied wi hunting, and fain wad lie down." "An wha met ye there, Lord Randal, my son? And wha met ye there, my handsome young man?" "O I met wi my true-love; mother, mak my bed soon, For I'm wearied wi huntin, and fain wad lie down." "And what did she give you, Lord Randal, My son? And wha did she give you, my handsome young man?" "Eels fried in a pan; mother, mak my bed soon, For I'm wearied wi huntin, and fein wad lie down." "And what gat your leavins, Lord Randal my son? And wha gat your leavins, my handsome young man?" "My hawks and my hounds; mother, mak my bed soon, For I'm wearied wi huntin, and fein wad lie down." "And what becam of them, Lord Randal, my son? And what becam of them, my handsome young man? "They stretched their legs out and died; mother mak my bed soon, For I'm wearied wi huntin, and fain wad lie down." "O I fear you are poisoned, Lord Randal, my son! I fear you are poisoned, my handsome young man!" "O yes, I am poisoned; mother, mak my bed soon, For I'm sick at the heart, and fain wad lie down." "What d'ye leave to your mother, Lord Randal, my son? What d'ye leave to your mother, my handsome young man?" "Four and twenty milk kye; mother, mak my bed soon, For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie down." "What d'ye leave to your sister, Lord Randal, my son? What d'ye leave to your sister, my handsome young man?" "My gold and my silver; mother mak my bed soon, For I'm sick at the heart, an I fain wad lie down." "What d'ye leave to your brother, Lord Randal, my son? What d'ye leave to your brother, my handsome young man?" "My houses and my lands; mother, mak my bed soon, For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie down." "What d'ye leave to your true-love, Lord Randal, my son? What d'ye leave to your true-love, my handsome young man?" "I leave her hell and fire; mother mak my bed soon, For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie down." |
| Bonny Barbara Allan | Anonymous (Ballad) IT was in and about the Martinmas time, When the green leaves were a falling, That Sir John Græme, in the West Country, Fell in love with Barbara Allan. -He sent his man down through the town, 5 To the place where she was dwelling: "O haste and come to my master dear, Gin ye be Barbara Allan." -O hooly, 1 hooly rose she up, To the place where he was lying, 10 And when she drew the curtain by, "Young man, I think you're dying." -"O it's I'm sick, and very, very sick, And 'tis a' for Barbara Allan:" "O the better for me ye's never be, 15 Tho your heart's blood were a spilling. -"O dinna ye mind, young man," said she, "When ye was in the tavern a drinking, That ye made the healths gae round and round, And slighted Barbara Allan?" 20 -He turned his face unto the wall, And death was with him dealing: "Adieu, adieu, my dear friends all, And be kind to Barbara Allan." -And slowly, slowly raise she up, 25 And slowly, slowly left him, And sighing said, she coud not stay, Since death of life had reft him. -She had not gane a mile but twa, When she heard the dead-bell ringing, 30 And every jow that the dead-bell gied, It cry'd, Woe to Barbara Allan! -"O mother, mother, make my bed! O make it saft and narrow! Since my love died for me to-day, 35 I'll die for him to-morrow." |
| Our God, Our Help in Ages Past | Sir Isaac Watts -Our God, our help in ages past, Our hope for years to come, Our shelter from the stormy blast, And our eternal home. -Under the shadow of Thy throne Thy saints have dwelt secure; Sufficient is Thine arm alone, And our defense is sure. -Before the hills in order stood, Or earth received her frame, From everlasting Thou art God, To endless years the same. -Thy Word commands our flesh to dust, "Return, ye sons of men:" All nations rose from earth at first, And turn to earth again. -A thousand ages in Thy sight Are like an evening gone; Short as the watch that ends the night Before the rising sun. -The busy tribes of flesh and blood, With all their lives and cares, Are carried downwards by the flood, And lost in following years. -Time, like an ever rolling stream, Bears all its sons away; They fly, forgotten, as a dream Dies at the opening day. -Like flowery fields the nations stand Pleased with the morning light; The flowers beneath the mower's hand Lie withering ere 'tis night. -Our God, our help in ages past, Our hope for years to come, Be Thou our guard while troubles last, And our eternal home. |
| La Belle Dame sans Merci | John Keats -Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight, Alone and palely loitering; The sedge is wither'd from the lake, And no birds sing. -Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight, So haggard and so woe-begone? The squirrel's granary is full, And the harvest's done. -I see a lily on thy brow, With anguish moist and fever dew; And on thy cheek a fading rose Fast withereth too. -I met a lady in the meads Full beautiful, a faery's child; Her hair was long, her foot was light, And her eyes were wild. -I set her on my pacing steed, And nothing else saw all day long; For sideways would she lean, and sing A faery's song. -I made a garland for her head, And bracelets too, and fragrant zone; She look'd at me as she did love, And made sweet moan. -She found me roots of relish sweet, And honey wild, and manna dew; And sure in language strange she said, I love thee true. -She took me to her elfin grot, And there she gaz'd and sighed deep, And there I shut her wild sad eyes-- So kiss'd to sleep. -And there we slumber'd on the moss, And there I dream'd, ah woe betide, The latest dream I ever dream'd On the cold hill side. -I saw pale kings, and princes too, Pale warriors, death-pale were they all; Who cry'd--"La belle Dame sans merci Hath thee in thrall!" -I saw their starv'd lips in the gloam With horrid warning gaped wide, And I awoke, and found me here On the cold hill side. -And this is why I sojourn here Alone and palely loitering, Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake, And no birds sing. |
| Because I could not stop for Death | Emily Dickinson -Because I could not stop for Death, He kindly stopped for me; The carriage held but just ourselves And Immortality. -We slowly drove, he knew no haste, And I had put away My labor, and my leisure too, For his civility. -We passed the school, where children strove At recess, in the ring; We passed the fields of gazing grain, We passed the setting sun. -Or rather, he passed us; The dews grew quivering and chill, For only gossamer my gown, My tippet only tulle. -We paused before a house that seemed A swelling of the ground; The roof was scarcely visible, The cornice but a mound. -Since then 'tis centuries, and yet each Feels shorter than the day I first surmised the horses' heads Were toward eternity. |
| Ode on a Grecian Urn | John Keats -Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness, Thou foster-child of silence and slow time, Sylvan historian, who canst thus express A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme: What leaf-fring'd legend haunt about thy shape Of deities or mortals, or of both, In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? What men or gods are these? What maidens loth? What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy? -Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Are sweeter: therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd, Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone: Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare; Bold lover, never, never canst thou kiss, Though winning near the goal - yet, do not grieve; She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss, For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair! -Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed Your leaves, nor ever bid the spring adieu; And, happy melodist, unwearied, For ever piping songs for ever new; More happy love! more happy, happy love! For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd, For ever panting, and for ever young; All breathing human passion far above, That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd, A burning forehead, and a parching tongue. -Who are these coming to the sacrifice? To what green altar, O mysterious priest, Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies, And all her silken flanks with garlands drest? What little town by river or sea shore, Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn? And, little town, thy streets for evermore Will silent be; and not a soul to tell Why thou art desolate, can e'er return. -O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede Of marble men and maidens overwrought, With forest branches and the trodden weed; Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral! When old age shall this generation waste, Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, "Beauty is truth, truth beauty," - that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know. |
| Wild Nights... | Emily Dickinson -Wild nights! Wild nights! Were I with thee, Wild nights should be Our luxury! -Futile the winds To a heart in port, Done with the compass, Done with the chart. -Rowing in Eden! Ah! the sea! Might I but moor To-night in thee! |
| There's a certain Slant of Light | Emily Dickinson There's a certain Slant of light, Winter Afternoons - That oppresses, like the Heft Of Cathedral Tunes - -Heavenly Hurt, it gives us - We can find no scar, But internal difference, Where the Meanings, are - -None may teach it - Any - 'Tis the Seal Despair - An imperial affliction Sent us of the Air - -When it comes, the Landscape listens - Shadows - hold their breath - When it goes, 'tis like the Distance On the look of Death - |
| A Bird Came down the Walk | Emily Dickinson -A bird came down the walk: He did not know I saw; He bit an angle-worm in halves And ate the fellow, raw. -And then he drank a dew From a convenient grass, And then hopped sidewise to the wall To let a beetle pass. -He glanced with rapid eyes That hurried all abroad,-- They looked like frightened beads, I thought; He stirred his velvet head -Like one in danger; cautious, I offered him a crumb, And he unrolled his feathers And rowed him softer home -Than oars divide the ocean, Too silver for a seam, Or butterflies, off banks of noon, Leap, plashless, as they swim. |
| After great pain, a formal feeling comes | Emily Dickinson -After great pain a formal feeling comes-- The nerves sit ceremonious like tombs; The stiff Heart questions--was it He that bore? And yesterday--or centuries before? -The feet, mechanical, go round A wooden way Of ground, or air, or ought, Regardless grown, A quartz contentment, like a stone. -This is the hour of lead Remembered if outlived, As freezing persons recollect the snow-- First chill, then stupor, then the letting go. |
| The Bustle in a House | Emily Dickinson -The bustle in a house The morning after death Is solemnest of industries Enacted upon earth,-- -The sweeping up the heart, And putting love away We shall not want to use again Until eternity. |
| Fern Hill | Dylan Thomas Now as I was young and easy under the apple boughs About the lilting house and happy as the grass was green, The night above the dingle starry, Time let me hail and climb Golden in the heydays of his eyes, And honoured among wagons I was prince of the apple towns And once below a time I lordly had the trees and leaves Trail with daisies and barley Down the rivers of the windfall light. -And as I was green and carefree, famous among the barns About the happy yard and singing as the farm was home, In the sun that is young once only, Time let me play and be Golden in the mercy of his means, And green and golden I was huntsman and herdsman, the calves Sang to my horn, the foxes on the hills barked clear and cold, And the sabbath rang slowly In the pebbles of the holy streams. -All the sun long it was running, it was lovely, the hay Fields high as the house, the tunes from the chimneys, it was air And playing, lovely and watery And fire green as grass. And nightly under the simple stars As I rode to sleep the owls were bearing the farm away, All the moon long I heard, blessed among stables, the nightjars Flying with the ricks, and the horses Flashing into the dark. -And then to awake, and the farm, like a wanderer white With the dew, come back, the cock on his shoulder: it was all Shining, it was Adam and maiden, The sky gathered again And the sun grew round that very day. So it must have been after the birth of the simple light In the first, spinning place, the spellbound horses walking warm Out of the whinnying green stable On to the fields of praise. -And honoured among foxes and pheasants by the gay house Under the new made clouds and happy as the heart was long, In the sun born over and over, I ran my heedless ways, My wishes raced through the house high hay And nothing I cared, at my sky blue trades, that time allows In all his tuneful turning so few and such morning songs Before the children green and golden Follow him out of grace, -Nothing I cared, in the lamb white days, that time would take me Up to the swallow thronged loft by the shadow of my hand, In the moon that is always rising, Nor that riding to sleep I should hear him fly with the high fields And wake to the farm forever fled from the childless land. Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means, Time held me green and dying Though I sang in my chains like the sea. |
| Lady Lazarus | 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 O 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 eyeing 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. |
| Skunk Cabbage | Eric Ormsby |
| Caedmon's Hymn | Caedmon. Anglo Saxon Period. Praise for God. Oldest English Poem Known Accentual Verse Old English nu scylun hergan hefaenricaes uard metudæs maecti end his modgidanc uerc uuldurfadur swe he uundra gihwaes eci dryctin or astelidæ he aerist scop aelda barnum heben til hrofe haleg scepen. tha middungeard moncynnæs uard eci dryctin æfter tiadæ firum foldu frea allmectig Translation: Now [we] must honour the guardian of heaven, the might of the architect, and his purpose, the work of the father of glory[8] — as he, the eternal lord, established the beginning of wonders; he first created for the children of men[9] heaven as a roof, the holy creator Then the guardian of mankind, the eternal lord, afterwards appointed the middle earth, the lands for men,[10] the Lord almighty. |
| The General Prologue | Geoffrey Chaucer 1 Whan that Aprill with his shoures soote When April with its sweet-smelling showers 2 The droghte of March hath perced to the roote, Has pierced the drought of March to the root, 3 And bathed every veyne in swich licour And bathed every vein (of the plants) in such liquid 4 Of which vertu engendred is the flour; By which power the flower is created; 5 Whan Zephirus eek with his sweete breeth When the West Wind also with its sweet breath, 6 Inspired hath in every holt and heeth In every wood and field has breathed life into 7 The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne The tender new leaves, and the young sun 8 Hath in the Ram his half cours yronne, Has run half its course in Aries, 9 And smale foweles maken melodye, And small fowls make melody, 10 That slepen al the nyght with open ye Those that sleep all the night with open eyes 11 (So priketh hem Nature in hir corages), (So Nature incites them in their hearts), 12 Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages, Then folk long to go on pilgrimages, 13 And palmeres for to seken straunge strondes, And professional pilgrims to seek foreign shores, 14 To ferne halwes, kowthe in sondry londes; To distant shrines, known in various lands; 15 And specially from every shires ende And specially from every shire's end 16 Of Engelond to Caunterbury they wende, Of England to Canterbury they travel, 17 The hooly blisful martir for to seke, To seek the holy blessed martyr, 18 That hem hath holpen whan that they were seeke. Who helped them when they were sick. |
| There's a Lady Sweet and Kind | Anonymous -THERE is a Lady sweet and kind, Was never face so pleased my mind; I did but see her passing by, And yet I love her till I die. -Her gesture, motion, and her smiles, 5 Her wit, her voice my heart beguiles, Beguiles my heart, I know not why, And yet I love her till I die. -Cupid is wingèd and doth range, Her country so my love doth change: 10 But change she earth, or change she sky, Yet will I love her till I die. |
| Sonnet 18 | William Shakespeare Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate: Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer's lease hath all too short a date: Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimm'd; And every fair from fair sometime declines, By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd; But thy eternal summer shall not fade Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest; Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade, When in eternal lines to time thou growest: So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, So long lives this and this gives life to thee. |
| Sonnet 130 | William Shakespeare My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun; Coral is far more red than her lips' red; If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun; If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head. I have seen roses damask'd, red and white, But no such roses see I in her cheeks; And in some perfumes is there more delight Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks. I love to hear her speak, yet well I know That music hath a far more pleasing sound; I grant I never saw a goddess go; My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground: And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare As any she belied with false compare. |
| Easter Wings | George Herbert -Lord, who createdst man in wealth and store, Though foolishly he lost the same, Decaying more and more, Till he became Most poore: With thee O let me rise As larks, harmoniously, And sing this day thy victories: Then shall the fall further the flight in me. -My tender age in sorrow did beginne And still with sicknesses and shame. Thou didst so punish sinne, That I became Most thinne. With thee Let me combine, And feel thy victorie: For, if I imp my wing on thine, Affliction shall advance the flight in me. |
| I like a look of Agony | Emily Dickinson -I like a look of Agony, Because I know it's true -- Men do not sham Convulsion, Nor simulate, a Throe -- -The Eyes glaze once -- and that is Death -- Impossible to feign The Beads upon the Forehead By homely Anguish strung. |
| This was a Poet | Emily Dickinson -This was a Poet -- It is That Distills amazing sense From ordinary Meanings -- And Attar so immense -fFrom the familiar species That perished by the Door -- We wonder it was not Ourselves Arrested it -- before -- -Of Pictures, the Discloser -- The Poet -- it is He -- Entitles Us -- by Contrast -- To ceaseless Poverty -- -Of portion -- so unconscious -- The Robbing -- could not harm -- Himself -- to Him -- a Fortune -- Exterior -- to Time -- |
| I never lost as much but twice | Emily Dickinson -I never lost as much but twice, And that was in the sod. Twice have I stood a beggar Before the door of God! -Angels -- twice descending Reimbursed my store -- Burglar! Banker -- Father! I am poor once more! |
| My life closed twice before it's close | Emily Dickinson -My life closed twice before its close -- It yet remains to see If Immortality unveil A third event to me -So huge, so hopeless to conceive As these that twice befell. Parting is all we know of heaven, And all we need of hell. |
| My Papa's Waltz | Theodore Roethke -The whiskey on your breath Could make a small boy dizzy; But I hung on like death: Such waltzing was not easy. -We romped until the pans Slid from the kitchen shelf; My mother's countenance Could not unfrown itself. -The hand that held my wrist Was battered on one knuckle; At every step you missed My right ear scraped a buckle. -You beat time on my head With a palm caked hard by dirt, Then waltzed me off to bed Still clinging to your shirt. |
| Holy Sonnet XIV | John Donne Batter my heart, three-person'd God ; for you As yet but knock ; breathe, shine, and seek to mend ; That I may rise, and stand, o'erthrow me, and bend Your force, to break, blow, burn, and make me new. I, like an usurp'd town, to another due, Labour to admit you, but O, to no end. Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend, But is captived, and proves weak or untrue. Yet dearly I love you, and would be loved fain, But am betroth'd unto your enemy ; Divorce me, untie, or break that knot again, Take me to you, imprison me, for I, Except you enthrall me, never shall be free, Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me. |
| The Destruction of Sennacherib | Lord Byron -The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. -Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green, That host with their banners at sunset were seen: Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown, That host on the morrow lay withered and strown. -For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed; And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still! -And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride; And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. -And there lay the rider distorted and pale, With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail: And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. -And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal; And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord! |
| Evangeline | 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. Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neighboring ocean Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest. |
| This Living Hand | John Keats This living hand, now warm and capable Of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold And in the icy silence of the tomb, So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights That thou wouldst wish thine own heart dry of blood So in my veins red life might stream again, And thou be conscience-calmed—see here it is— I hold it towards you. |
| Ulysses | Alfred Lord Tennyson 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, 5 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 enjoyed Greatly, have suffered greatly, both with those That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when 10 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, 15 Myself not least, but honor'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' 20 Gleams that untraveled world whose margin fades For ever and for ever 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 25 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, 30 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 scepter and the isle, 35 Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfill This labor, 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, centered in the sphere 40 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; 45 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; 50 Old age hath yet his honor 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; 55 The long day wanes; the slow moon climbs; the deep Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends, 'Tis not too late to seek a newer world. Push off, and sitting well in order smite The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds 60 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. 65 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 70 To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield. |
| My Last Duchess | Robert Browning That's my last duchess painted on the wall, Looking as if she were alive. I call That piece a wonder, now: Frà Pandolf's hands Worked busily a day, and there she stands. Will't please you sit and look at her? I said "Frà 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 Frà 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 favor 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 make 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! |
| When I Heard the Learn'd Astronomer | Walt Whitman WHEN I heard the learn'd astronomer; When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before me; When I was shown the charts and the diagrams, to add, divide, and measure them; When I, sitting, heard the astronomer, where he lectured with much applause in the lecture-room, How soon, unaccountable, I became tired and sick; Till rising and gliding out, I wander'd off by myself, In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time, Look'd up in perfect silence at the stars. |
| The River-Merchant's Wife: A Letter | Ezra Pound While my hair was still cut straight across my forehead I played about the front gate, pulling flowers. You came by on bamboo stilts, playing horse, You walked about my seat, playing with blue plums. And we went on living in the village of Chokan: Two small people, without dislike or suspicion. -At fourteen I married My Lord you. I never laughed, being bashful. Lowering my head, I looked at the wall. Called to, a thousand times, I never looked back. -At fifteen I stopped scowling, I desired my dust to be mingled with yours Forever and forever and forever. Why should I climb the look out? -At sixteen you departed, You went into far Ku-to-yen, by the river of swirling eddies, And you have been gone five months. The monkeys make sorrowful noise overhead. -You dragged your feet when you went out. By the gate now, the moss is grown, the different mosses, Too deep to clear them away! The leaves fall early this autumn, in wind. The paired butterflies are already yellow with August Over the grass in the West garden; They hurt me. I grow older. If you are coming down through the narrows of the river Kiang, Please let me know beforehand, And I will come out to meet you As far as Cho-fu-Sa. |
| 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 |
| The Long Love, That in My Thought Doth Harbor | Thomas Wyatt The long love that in my thought doth harbour, And in mine heart doth keep his residence, Into my face presseth with bold pretence, And therein campeth, spreading his banner. She that me learneth to love and suffer, And wills that my trust and lust's negligence Be reined by reason, shame, and reverence, With his hardiness taketh displeasure. Wherewithal, unto the heart's forest he fleeth, Leaving his enterprise with pain and cry; And there him hideth, and not appeareth. What may I do when my master feareth But in the field with him to live or die? For good is the life ending faithfully. |
| Love, that Doth Reign and Live Within My Thought | Henry Howard Love that doth reign and live within my thought And built his seat within my captive breast, Clad in arms wherein with me he fought, Oft in my face he doth his banner rest. But she that taught me love and suffer pain, My doubtful hope and eke my hot desire With shamefaced look to shadow and refrain, Her smiling grace converteth straight to ire. And coward Love, then, to the heart apace Taketh his flight, where he doth lurk and 'plain, His purpose lost, and dare not show his face. For my lord's guilt thus faultless bide I pain, Yet from my lord shall not my foot remove,- Sweet is the death that taketh end by love. |
| Sonnet 75 (One Day) | Edmund Spenser One day I wrote her name upon the strand, But came the waves and washed it away: Again I wrote it with a second hand, But came the tide, and made my pains his prey. Vain man, said she, that doest in vain assay A mortal thing so to immortalize, For I myself shall like to this decay, And eek my name be wiped out likewise. Not so (quoth I), let baser things devise To die in dust, but you shall live by fame: My verse your virtues rare shall eternize, And in the heavens write your glorious name. Where whenas Death shall all the world subdue, Out love shall live, and later life renew. |
| Holy Sonnet 10 (no title) | John Donne Death, be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so ; For those, whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow, Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me. From rest and sleep, which but thy picture[s] be, Much pleasure, then from thee much more must flow, And soonest our best men with thee do go, Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery. Thou'rt slave to Fate, chance, kings, and desperate men, And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell, And poppy, or charms can make us sleep as well, And better than thy stroke ; why swell'st thou then ? One short sleep past, we wake eternally, And Death shall be no more ; Death, thou shalt die. |
| The World is Too Much With Us | William Wordsworth The world is too much with us; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;— Little we see in Nature that is ours; We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon; The winds that will be howling at all hours, And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers; For this, for everything, we are out of tune; It moves us not. Great God! I'd rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn; So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn. |
| Ozymandias (Shelley) | Percy Shelley I met a traveller from an antique land Who said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand, Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command Tell that its sculptor well those passions read Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things, The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed. And on the pedestal these words appear: `My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings: Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!' Nothing beside remains. Round the decay Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare, The lone and level sands stretch far away". |
| How Do I Love Thee/Sonnet 43 | E.B. Browning How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight For the ends of being and ideal grace. I love thee to the level of every day's Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light. I love thee freely, as men strive for right. I love thee purely, as they turn from praise. I love thee with the passion put to use In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith. I love thee with a love I seemed to lose With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath, Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death. |
| Felix Randal | Gerald Hopkins FELIX RANDAL the farrier, O he is dead then? my duty all ended, Who have watched his mould of man, big-boned and hardy-handsome Pining, pining, till time when reason rambled in it and some Fatal four disorders, fleshed there, all contended? Sickness broke him. Impatient he cursed at first, but mended Being anointed and all; though a heavenlier heart began some Months earlier, since I had our sweet reprieve and ransom Tendered to him. Ah well, God rest him all road ever he offended! This seeing the sick endears them to us, us too it endears. My tongue had taught thee comfort, touch had quenched thy tears, Thy tears that touched my heart, child, Felix, poor Felix Randal; How far from then forethought of, all thy more boisterous years, When thou at the random grim forge, powerful amidst peers, Didst fettle for the great grey drayhorse his bright and battering sandal! |
| I, Being Born a Woman and Distressed | Edna Millay I, being born a woman and distressed By all the needs and notions of my kind, Am urged by your propinquity to find Your person fair, and feel a certain zest To bear your body's weight upon my breast: So subtly is the fume of life designed, To clarify the pulse and cloud the mind, And leave me once again undone, possessed. Think not for this, however, the poor treason Of my stout blood against my staggering brain, I shall remember you with love, or season My scorn wtih pity, -- let me make it plain: I find this frenzy insufficient reason For conversation when we meet again. |
| Dulce Et Decorum Est | Wilfred Owen -Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs And towards our distant rest began to trudge. Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind; Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots Of disappointed shells that dropped behind. -GAS! Gas! Quick, boys!-- An ecstasy of fumbling, Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time; But someone still was yelling out and stumbling And floundering like a man in fire or lime.-- Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light As under a green sea, I saw him drowning. -In all my dreams, before my helpless sight, He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning. -If in some smothering dreams you too could pace Behind the wagon that we flung him in, And watch the white eyes writhing in his face, His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin; If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs, Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,-- My friend, you would not tell with such high zest To children ardent for some desperate glory, The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori. |
| Those Winter Sundays | Robert Hayden -Sundays too my father got up early and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold, then with cracked hands that ached from labor in the weekday weather made banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him. -I'd wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking. When the rooms were warm, he'd call, and slowly I would rise and dress, fearing the chronic angers of that house, -Speaking indifferently to him, who had driven out the cold and polished my good shoes as well. What did I know, what did I know of love's austere and lonely offices? |
| Ozymandias (Smith) | Horace Smith -IN Egypt's sandy silence, all alone, Stands a gigantic Leg, which far off throws The only shadow that the Desart knows:— "I am great OZYMANDIAS," saith the stone, "The King of Kings; this mighty City shows "The wonders of my hand."— The City's gone,— Nought but the Leg remaining to disclose The site of this forgotten Babylon. -We wonder,—and some Hunter may express Wonder like ours, when thro' the wilderness Where London stood, holding the Wolf in chace, He meets some fragment huge, and stops to guess What powerful but unrecorded race Once dwelt in that annihilated place. |
| I Heard a Fly Buzz | Emily Dickinson I heard a Fly buzz - when I died - The Stillness in the Room Was like the Stillness in the Air - Between the Heaves of Storm - The Eyes around - had wrung them dry - And Breaths were gathering firm For that last Onset - when the King Be witnessed - in the Room - I willed my Keepsakes - Signed away What portions of me be Assignable - and then it was There interposed a Fly - With Blue - uncertain stumbling Buzz - Between the light - and me - And then the Windows failed - and then I could not see to see - |
| How many times these low feet staggered | Emily Dickinson -How many times these low feet staggered -- Only the soldered mouth can tell -- Try -- can you stir the awful rivet -- Try -- can you lift the hasps of steel! -Stroke the cool forehead -- hot so often -- Lift -- if you care -- the listless hair -- Handle the adamantine fingers Never a thimble -- more -- shall wear -- -Buzz the dull flies -- on the chamber window -- Brave -- shines the sun through the freckled pane -- Fearless -- the cobweb swings from the ceiling -- Indolent Housewife -- in Daisies -- lain! |
| Sonnet 138 | William Shakespeare When my love swears that she is made of truth I do believe her, though I know she lies, That she might think me some untutor'd youth, Unlearned in the world's false subtleties. Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young, Although she knows my days are past the best, Simply I credit her false speaking tongue: On both sides thus is simple truth suppress'd. But wherefore says she not she is unjust? And wherefore say not I that I am old? O, love's best habit is in seeming trust, And age in love loves not to have years told: Therefore I lie with her and she with me, And in our faults by lies we flatter'd be. |
| Talking in Bed | Philip Larkin Talking in bed ought to be easiest, Lying together there goes back so far, An emblem of two people being honest. Yet more and more time passes silently. Outside, the wind's incomplete unrest Builds and disperses clouds in the sky, And dark towns heap up on the horizon. None of this cares for us. Nothing shows why At this unique distance from isolation It becomes still more difficult to find Words at once true and kind, Or not untrue and not unkind. |
| The Word Plum | Helen Chasin -The word plum is delicious -pout and push, luxury of self-love, and savoring murmur -full in the mouth and falling like fruit -taut skin pierced, bitten, provoked into juice, and tart flesh -question and reply, lip and tongue of pleasure. |
| Design | Robert Frost -I found a dimpled spider, fat and white, On a white heal-all, holding up a moth Like a white piece of rigid satin cloth— Assorted characters of death and blight Mixed ready to begin the morning right, Like the ingredients of a witches' broth— A snow-drop spider, a flower like a froth, And dead wings carried like a paper kite. -What had that flower to do with being white, The wayside blue and innocent heal-all? What brought the kindred spider to that height, Then steered the white moth thither in the night? What but design of darkness to appall?— If design govern in a thing so small. |
| A Noiseless Patient Spider | Walt Whitman -A noiseless, patient spider, I mark'd, where, on a little promontory, it stood, isolated; Mark'd how, to explore the vacant, vast surrounding, It launch'd forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself; Ever unreeling them—ever tirelessly speeding them. -And you, O my Soul, where you stand, Surrounded, surrounded, in measureless oceans of space, Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing,—seeking the spheres, to connect them; Till the bridge you will need, be form'd—till the ductile anchor hold; Till the gossamer thread you fling, catch somewhere, O my Soul. |
| Porphyria's lover | Robert Browning 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 listen'd with heart fit to break. 5 When glided in Porphyria; straight She shut the cold out and the storm, And kneel'd and made the cheerless grate Blaze up, and all the cottage warm; Which done, she rose, and from her form 10 Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl, And laid her soil'd gloves by, untied Her hat and let the damp hair fall, And, last, she sat down by my side And call'd me. When no voice replied, 15 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, 20 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. 25 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. 30 Be sure I look'd up at her eyes Happy and proud; at last I knew Porphyria worshipp'd me; surprise Made my heart swell, and still it grew While I debated what to do. 35 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, 40 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 Laugh'd the blue eyes without a stain. 45 And I untighten'd next the tress About her neck; her cheek once more Blush'd bright beneath my burning kiss: I propp'd her head up as before, Only, this time my shoulder bore 50 Her head, which droops upon it still: The smiling rosy little head, So glad it has its utmost will, That all it scorn'd at once is fled, And I, its love, am gain'd instead! 55 Porphyria's love: she guess'd not how Her darling one wish would be heard. And thus we sit together now, And all night long we have not stirr'd, And yet God has not said a word! 60 |
| Sonnet 71 | William Shakespeare No longer mourn for me when I am dead Then you shall hear the surly sullen bell Give warning to the world that I am fled From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell: Nay, if you read this line, remember not The hand that writ it; for I love you so That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot If thinking on me then should make you woe. O, if, I say, you look upon this verse When I perhaps compounded am with clay, Do not so much as my poor name rehearse. But let your love even with my life decay, Lest the wise world should look into your moan And mock you with me after I am gone. |
| 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 sieze 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 watered 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? |
| The Sick Rose | William Blake O Rose, thou art sick! The invisible worm That flies in the night, In the howling storm, Has found out thy bed Of crimson joy: And his dark secret love Does thy life destroy. |
| The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock | T.S. Eliot S'io credesse che mia risposta fosse A persona che mai tornasse al mondo, Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse. Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo Non torno vivo alcun, s'i'odo il vero, Senza tema d'infamia ti rispondo. LET us go then, you and I, When the evening is spread out against the sky Like a patient etherized upon a table; Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets, The muttering retreats 5 Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells: Streets that follow like a tedious argument Of insidious intent To lead you to an overwhelming question.... 10 Oh, do not ask, "What is it?" Let us go and make our visit. In the room the women come and go Talking of Michelangelo. The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes, 15 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, 20 And seeing that it was a soft October night, Curled once about the house, and fell asleep. And indeed there will be time For the yellow smoke that slides along the street, Rubbing its back upon the window panes; 25 There will be time, there will be time To 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 hands That lift and drop a question on your plate; 30 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 go 35 Talking of Michelangelo. And indeed there will be time To 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— 40 (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 dare 45 Disturb the universe? In a minute there is time For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse. For I have known them all already, known them all: Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, 50 I have measured out my life with coffee spoons; I know the voices dying with a dying fall Beneath the music from a farther room. So how should I presume? And I have known the eyes already, known them all— 55 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 begin To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways? 60 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 dress 65 That 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 streets 70 And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?... I should have been a pair of ragged claws Scuttling across the floors of silent seas. . . . . . . . . And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully! 75 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? 80 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, 85 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, 90 To have bitten off the matter with a smile, To have squeezed the universe into a ball To roll it toward some overwhelming question, To say: "I am Lazarus, come from the dead, Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all"— 95 If one, settling a pillow by her head, Should 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, 100 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: 105 Would it have been worth while If 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." . . . . . . . . 110 No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be; Am an attendant lord, one that will do To swell a progress, start a scene or two, Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool, Deferential, glad to be of use, 115 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 ... 120 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. 125 I have seen them riding seaward on the waves Combing the white hair of the waves blown back When the wind blows the water white and black. We have lingered in the chambers of the sea By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown 130 Till human voices wake us, and we drown. |
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