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8/8/2019 Lit poems set a

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Psalm 23

King David (New American Bible)

The LORD is my shepherd; I shall not want.

In verdant pastures he gives me repose;

Beside restful waters he leads me;

he refreshes my soul.

He guides me in right paths

for his name's sake.

Even though I walk in the dark valley

I fear no evil; for you are at my side

With your rod and your staff

that give me courage.

You spread the table before me

in the sight of my foes;

You anoint my head with oil;

my cup overflows.

Only goodness and kindness follow meall the days of my life;

And I shall dwell in the house of the LORD

for years to come.

Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening

Robert Fr ost

Whose woods these are I think I know.

His house is in the village though;

He will not see me stopping hereTo 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.

Fable

Ralph Wald o Emer son

THE MOUNTAIN and the squirrel

Had a quarrel;

And the former called the latter "Little Prig."

Bun replied,"You are doubtless very big;

But all sorts of things and weather

Must be taken in together,

To make up a year

And a sphere.

And I think it no disgrace

To occupy my place.

If I'm not as large as you,You are not so small as I,

And not half so spry.

I'll not deny you make

A very pretty squirrel track;

Talents differ; all is well and wisely put;

If I cannot carry forests on my back,

Neither can you crack a nut."

I'm nobody! Who are you?

Emily Dickinson

I'm nobody! Who are you?

Are you nobody, too?

Then there's a pair of us -don't tell!

They'd banish us, you know.

How dreary to be somebody!

How public, like a frog

To tell your name the live long day

To an admiring bog!



The Passionate Shepherd to His Love

C hri st o pher Marl owe

COME live with me and be my Love,

And we will all the pleasures prove

That hills and valleys, dale and field,

And all the craggy mountains yield.

There will we sit upon the rocks 5

And see the shepherds feed their flocks,

By shallow rivers, to whose falls

Melodious birds sing madrigals.

There will I make thee beds of roses

And a thousand fragrant posies, 10

A cap of flowers, and a kirtle

Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle.

A gown made of the finest wool

Which from our pretty lambs we pull,

Fair linèd slippers for the cold, 15

With buckles of the purest gold.

A belt of straw and ivy buds

With coral clasps and amber studs:

And if these pleasures may thee move,

Come live with me and be my Love. 20

Thy silver dishes for thy meat

As precious as the gods do eat,

Shall on an ivory table be

Prepared each day for thee and me.

The shepherd swains shall dance and sing 25

For thy delight each May-morning:

If these delights thy mind may move,

Then live with me and be my Love.

The Nymph's Reply to the Shepherd

Walter Raleigh

If all the world and love were young,

And truth in every shepherd's tongue,

These pretty pleasures might me move

To live with thee and be thy love.

Time drives the flocks from field to fold,

When rivers rage and rocks grow cold;

And Philomel becometh dumb;

The rest complains of cares to come.

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields

To wayward winter reckoning yields:

A honey tongue, a heart of gall,

Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall.

The gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,

Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies

Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten,

In folly ripe, in reason rotten.

Thy belt of straw and ivy buds,

Thy coral clasps and amber studs,

All these in me no means can move

To come to thee and be thy love.

But could youth last and love still breed,

Had joys no date nor age no need,

Then these delights my mind might move

To live with thee and be thy love.



The Listeners

Walter de la Mare

'Is there anybody there?' said the Traveller,

Knocking on the moonlit door;

And his horse in the silence champ'd the

grasses

Of the forest's ferny floor:

And a bird flew up out of the turret,

Above the Traveller's head:

And he smote upon the door again a second

time;

'Is there anybody there?' he said.

But no one descended to the Traveller;

No head from the leaf-fringed sill

Lean'd over and look'd into his grey eyes,

Where he stood perplex'd and still.

But only a host of phantom listeners

That dwelt in the lone house then

Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight

To that voice from the world of men:

Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the

dark stair,

That goes down to the empty hall,

Hearkening in an air stirr'd and shaken

By the lonely Traveller's call.

And he felt in his heart their strangeness,

Their stillness answering his cry,

While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf,

'Neath the starr'd and leafy sky;

For he suddenly smote on the door, even

Louder, and lifted his head:--

'Tell them I came, and no one answer'd,

That I kept my word,' he said.

Never the least stir made the listeners,

Though every word he spake

Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still

house

From the one man left awake:

Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup,

And the sound of iron on stone,

And how the silence surged softly backward,

When the plunging hoofs were gone

Song to Celia

Ben Jonson

Drink to me, only with thine eyes

And I will pledge with mine;

Or leave a kiss but in the cup,

And I'll not look for wine.

The thirst that from the soul doth rise

Doth ask a drink divine:

But might I of Jove's nectar sup

I would not change for thine.

I sent thee late a rosy wreath,

Not so much honouring thee

As giving it a hope that there

It could not withered be

But thou thereon didst only breath

And sent'st it back to me:

Since, when it grows and smells, I swear,

Not of itself but thee.



Trees

oyce Kilmer

I THINK that I shall never see

A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest

Against the sweet earth's flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day, 5

And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in summer wear

A nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;

Who intimately lives with rain. 10

Poems are made by fools like me,But only God can make a tree.

Break Break Break

Alfred Lord Tenny son

Break, break, break,

On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!

And I would that my tongue could utter

The thoughts that arise in me.

O, well for the fisherman's boy,

That he shouts with his sister at play!

O, well for the sailor lad,

That he sings in his boat on the bay!

And the stately ships go on

To their haven under the hill;

But O for the touch of a vanished hand,

And the sound of a voice that is still!

Break, break, break,

At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!

But the tender grace of a day that is dead

Will never come back to me.

Sonnet 29

William Shakes peare

When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,

I all alone beweep my outcast state

And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries

And look upon myself and curse my fate,

Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,Featured like him, like him with friends possess'd,

Desiring this man's art and that man's scope,

With what I most enjoy contented least;

Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,

Haply I think on thee, and then my state,

Like to the lark at break of day arising

From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;

For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth

brings

That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

Blowin' In The Wind

Bob Dylan

How many roads must a man walk down

Before you call him a man?

Yes, n how many seas must a white dove sail

Before she sleeps in the sand?

Yes, n how many times must the cannonballs fly

Before theyre forever banned?

The answer, my friend, is blowin in the windThe answer is blowin in the wind

How many years can a mountain exist

Before its washed to the sea?

Yes, n how many years can some people exist

Before theyre allowed to be free?

Yes, n how many times can a man turn his head

Pretending he just doesnt see?

The answer, my friend, is blowin in the wind

The answer is blowin in the wind

How many times must a man look up

Before he can see the sky?

Yes, n how many ears must one man have

Before he can hear people cry?

Yes, n how many deaths will it take till he knows

That too many people have died?

The answer, my friend, is blowin in the wind

The answer is blowin in the wind



Patterns

Amy Lowell

I walk down the garden paths,

And all the daffodils

Are blowing, and the bright blue

squills.

I walk down the patterned garden-

pathsIn my stiff, brocaded gown.

With my powdered hair and jewelled

fan,

I too am a rare

Pattern. As I wander down

The garden paths.

My dress is richly figured,

And the train

Makes a pink and silver stainOn the gravel, and the thrift

Of the borders.

Just a plate of current fashion,

Tripping by in high-heeled, ribboned

shoes.

Not a softness anywhere about me,

Only whalebone and brocade.

And I sink on a seat in the shade

Of a lime tree. For my passion

Wars against the stiff brocade.

The daffodils and squills

Flutter in the breezeAs they please.

And I weep;

For the lime-tree is in blossom

And one small flower has dropped

upon my bosom.

And the plashing of waterdrops

In the marble fountain

Comes down the garden-paths.The dripping never stops.

Underneath my stiffened gown

Is the softness of a woman bathing in

a marble basin,

A basin in the midst of hedges grown

So thick, she cannot see her lover

hiding,

But she guesses he is near,

And the sliding of the water

Seems the stroking of a dear

Hand upon her.

What is Summer in a fine brocaded

gown!

I should like to see it lying in a heap

upon the ground.

All the pink and silver crumpled up on

the ground.

I would be the pink and silver as I ran

along the paths,

And he would stumble after,

Bewildered by my laughter.

I should see the sun flashing from his

sword-hilt and the buckles on his

shoes.

I would choose

To lead him in a maze along the

patterned paths,

A bright and laughing maze for my

heavy-booted lover,

Till he caught me in the shade,

And the buttons of his waistcoat

bruised my body as he clasped me,

Aching, melting, unafraid.

With the shadows of the leaves and

the sundrops,

And the plopping of the waterdrops,

All about us in the open afternoon --

I am very like to swoon

With the weight of this brocade,

For the sun sifts through the shade.

Underneath the fallen blossom

In my bosom,

Is a letter I have hid.

It was brought to me this morning by

a rider from the Duke.

"Madam, we regret to inform you that

Lord Hartwell

Died in action Thursday se'nnight."

As I read it in the white, morning

sunlight,

The letters squirmed like snakes.

"Any answer, Madam," said my

footman.

"No," I told him.

"See that the messenger takes some

refreshment.

No, no answer."

And I walked into the garden,

Up and down the patterned paths,

In my stiff, correct brocade.

The blue and yellow flowers stood up

proudly in the sun,

Each one.

I stood upright too,

Held rigid to the pattern

By the stiffness of my gown.

Up and down I walked,

Up and down.

In a month he would have been my

husband.

In a month, here, underneath this

lime,

We would have broke the pattern;

He for me, and I for him,

He as Colonel, I as Lady,

On this shady seat.

He had a whim

That sunlight carried blessing.

And I answered, "It shall be as you

have said."

Now he is dead.

In Summer and in Winter I shall walk

Up and down

The patterned garden-paths

In my stiff, brocaded gown.

The squills and daffodils

Will give place to pillared roses, and

to asters, and to snow.

I shall go

Up and down,

In my gown.

Gorgeously arrayed,

Boned and stayed.

And the softness of my body will be

guarded from embrace

By each button, hook, and lace.

For the man who should loose me is

dead,

Fighting with the Duke in Flanders,

In a pattern called a war.

Christ! What are patterns for?



On His Blindness

John Milt on

When I consider how my light is spent

E're half my days, in this dark world and wide,

And that one Talent which is death to hide,

Lodg'd with me useless, though my Soul more

bent

To serve therewith my Maker, and presentMy true account, lest he returning chide,

Doth God exact day-labour, light deny'd,

I fondly ask; But patience to prevent

That murmur, soon replies, God doth not need

Either man's work or his own gifts, who best

Bear his milde yoak, they serve him best, his

State

Is Kingly. Thousands at his bidding speed

And post o're Land and Ocean without rest:

They also serve who only stand and waite.

Ode to the West Wind

P. B. Shelley

O WILD West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's bein

Thou from whose unseen presence the leaves

dead

Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,

Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,

Pestilence-stricken multitudes!O thou5

Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed

The wingèd seeds, where they lie cold and low,

Each like a corpse within its grave, until

Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow

Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill 10

(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)

With living hues and odours plain and hill

Wild Spirit, which art moving

everywhere

Destroyer and Preserverhear, O hear!

Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's

commotion,

15

Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed,

Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and

Ocean,

Angels of rain and lightning! they are spread

On the blue surface of thine airy surge,

Like the bright hair uplifted from the head 20

Of some fierce Mænad, ev'n from the dim verge

Of the horizon to the zenith's height

The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge

Of the dying year, to which this closing night

Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre, 25

Vaulted with all thy congregated might

Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere

Black rain, and fire, and hail will burst:O hear!

Thou who didst waken from his summer-dreams

The blue Mediterranean, where he lay, 30

Lull'd by the coil of his crystalline streams,

Beside a pumice isle in Baiæ's bay,And saw in sleep old palaces and towers

Quivering within the wave's intenser day,

All overgrown with azure moss, and flowers 35

So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou

For whose path the Atlantic's level powers

Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below

The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear

The sapless foliage of the ocean, know 40

Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear

And tremble and despoil themselves:O hear!

If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;

If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;

A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share 45

The impulse of thy strength, only less free

Than thou, O uncontrollable!if even

I were as in my boyhood, and could be

The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven,

As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed 50

Scarce seem'd a vision,I would ne'er have

striven

As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.

O lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!

I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!

A heavy weight of hours has chain'd and bow'd 55 One too like theetameless, and swift, and

proud.

Make me thy lyre, ev'n as the forest is:

What if my leaves are falling like its own!

The tumult of thy mighty harmonies

Will take from both a deep autumnal tone, 60

Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce,

My spirit! be thou me, impetuous one!

Drive my dead thoughts over the universe,

Like wither'd leaves, to quicken a new birth;

And, by the incantation of this verse, 65

Scatter, as from an unextinguish'd hearth

Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!

Be through my lips to unawaken'd earth

The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind,

If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?

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