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  • 8/8/2019 Lit poems set a


    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 Frost

    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.


    Ralph Waldo Emerson

    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!

  • 8/8/2019 Lit poems set a


    The Passionate Shepherdto His Love

    Christopher Marlowe

    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 lind 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 tothe Shepherd


    If all the world and love were young,

    And truth in every shepherd's tongue,

    These pretty pleasures might me move

    To live with thee and be thy love.

    Time drives the flocks from field to fold,

    When rivers rage and rocks grow cold;

    And Philomel becometh dumb;

    The rest complains of cares to come.

    The flowers do fade, and wanton fields

    To wayward winter reckoning yields:

    A honey tongue, a heart of gall,

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

    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.

  • 8/8/2019 Lit poems set a


    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


    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


    '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


    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

    Songto 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.

  • 8/8/2019 Lit poems set a



    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 Tennyson

    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 Shakespeare

    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


    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

  • 8/8/2019 Lit poems set a



    Amy Lowell

    I walk down the garden paths,

    And all the daffodils

    Are blowing, and the bright blue


    I walk down the patterned garden-

    pathsIn my stiff, brocaded gown.

    With my powdered hair and jewelled


    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


    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


    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


    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


    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


    The letters squirmed like snakes.

    "Any answer, Madam," said my


    "No," I told him.

    "See that the messenger takes some


    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


    In a month, here, underneath this


    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


    Fighting with the Duke in Flanders,

    In a pattern called a war.

    Christ! What are patterns for?

  • 8/8/2019 Lit poems set a


    On His Blindness

    John Milton

    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


    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


    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 tothe West Wind

    P. B. Shelley

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

    Thou from whose unseen presence the leaves


    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 wingd 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


    Destroyer and Preserverhear, O hear!

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



    Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed,

    Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and


    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 Mnad, 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 Bai'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


    As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.

    O lift...