“I Hear America Singing” by: Walt Whitman

I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear, Those of mechanics, each one singing as it should be blithe and strong, The carpenter singing his as he measures his plank or beam, The mason singing as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat, the deckhand singing on the steamboat deck, The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench, the hattersinging as he stands, The wood-cutter's song, the ploughboy's on his way in the morning, or at noon intermission or at sundown, The delicious singing of the mother, or of the young wife at work, or of the girl sewing or washing, Each singing what belongs to him or her and to none else, The day what belongs to the day-at night the party of young fellows, robust, friendly, Singing with open mouths their strong melodious songs.

“The Road Not Taken” by: Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel bothAnd be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where is bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim, Because it was grassy and wanted wear; Though as for that, the passing thereHad worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay In leaves mp step had trodden black. Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood and I-I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference

“To be of use” by: Marge Piercy The people I love the bestjump into work head firstwithout dallying in the shallowsand swim off with sure strokes almost out of sight.They seem to become natives of that element,the black sleek heads of sealsbouncing like half submerged balls. I love people who harness themselves, an ox to a heavy cart,

who pull like water buffalo, with massive patience,who strain in the mud and the muck to move things forward,who do what has to be done, again and again. I want to be with people who submergein the task, who go into the fields to harvestand work in a row and pass the bags along,who stand in the line and haul in their places,who are not parlor generals and field desertersbut move in a common rhythmwhen the food must come in or the fire be put out. The work of the world is common as mud.Botched, it smears the hands, crumbles to dust.But the thing worth doing well donehas a shape that satisfies, clean and evident.Greek amphoras for wine or oil,Hopi vases that held corn, are put in museumsbut you know they were made to be used.The pitcher cries for water to carryand a person for work that is real.

“Sympathy” by: Paul Laurence Dunbar

I KNOW what the caged bird feels, alas! When the sun is bright on the upland slopes; When the wind stirs soft through the springing grass, And the river flows like a stream of glass; When the first bird sings and the first bud opes, And the faint perfume from its chalice steals — I know what the caged bird feels!

I know why the caged bird beats his wing Till its blood is red on the cruel bars; For he must fly back to his perch and cling When he fain would be on the bough a-swing; And a pain still throbs in the old, old scars And they pulse again with a keener sting — I know why he beats his wing!

I know why the caged bird sings, ah me, When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore,— When he beats his bars and he would be free; It is not a carol of joy or glee, But a prayer that he sends from his heart's deep core, But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings — I know why the caged bird sings!

“Caged Bird” by: Maya Angelou

The free bird leapson the back of the winand floats downstreamtill the current endsand dips his wingsin the orange sun rays

and dares to claim the sky.

But a bird that stalksdown his narrow cagecan seldom see throughhis bars of ragehis wings are clipped andhis feet are tiedso he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird singswith fearful trillof the things unknownbut longed for stilland is tune is heardon the distant hillfor the caged birdsings of freedom

The free bird thinks of another breezean the trade winds soft through the sighing treesand the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawnand he names the sky his own.

But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreamshis shadow shouts on a nightmare screamhis wings are clipped and his feet are tiedso he opens his throat to sing

The caged bird singswith a fearful trillof things unknownbut longed for stilland his tune is heardon the distant hillfor the caged birdsings of freedom.

“We Never Know How High We Are” by: Emily Dickinson

WE never know how high we are Till we are called to rise;And then, if we are true to plan, Our statures touch the skies. The heroism we recite 5 Would be a daily thing,Did not ourselves the cubits warp For fear to be a king.

“Macavity: The Mystery Cat” by: T.S. Eliot

Macavity's a Mystery Cat: he's called the Hidden Paw - For he's the master criminal who can defy the Law. He's the bafflement of Scotland Yard, the Flying Squad's despair: For when they reach the scene of crime - Macavity's not there!

Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macavity, He's broken every human law, he breaks the law of gravity. His powers of levitation would make a fakir stare, And when you reach the scene of crime - Macavity's not there! You may seek him in the basement, you may look up in the air - But I tell you once and once again, Macavity's not there!

Mcavity's a ginger cat, he's very tall and thin; You would know him if you saw him, for his eyes are sunken in. His brow is deeply lined with thought, his head is highly domed; His coat is dusty from neglect, his whiskers are uncombed. He sways his head from side to side, with movements like a snake; And when you think he's half asleep, he's always wide awake.

Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macavity, For he's a fiend in feline shape, a monster of depravity. You may meet him in a by-street, you may see him in the square - But when a crime's discovered, then Macavity's not there!

He's outwardly respectable. (They say he cheats at cards.) And his footprints are not found in any file of Scotland Yard's. And when the larder's looted, or the jewel-case is rifled, Or when the milk is missing, or another Peke's been stifled, Or the greenhouse glass is broken, and the trellis past repair - Ay, there's the wonder of the thing! Macavity's not there!

And when the Foreign Office find a Treaty's gone astray, Or the Admiralty lose some plans and drawings by the way, There may be a scrap of paper in the hall or on the stair - But it's useless to investigate - Mcavity's not there! And when the loss has been disclosed, the Secret Service say: `It must have been Macavity!' - but he's a mile away. You'll be sure to find him resting, or a-licking of his thumbs, Or engaged in doing complicated long-division sums.

Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macavity, There never was a Cat of such deceitfulness and suavity. He always has an alibi, and one or two to spaer: At whatever time the deed took place - MACAVITY WASN'T THERE! And they say that all the Cats whose wicked deeds are widely known (I might mention Mungojerrie, I might mention Griddlebone) Are nothing more than agents for the Cat who all the time Just controls their operations: the Napoleon of Crime!

“Problems With Hurricanes” by: Victor Hernandez Cruz

A campesino looked at the airAnd told me:With hurricanes it's not the windor the noise or the water.I'll tell you he said:it's the mangoes, avocadosGreen plantains and bananasflying into town like projectiles.

How would your familyfeel if they had to tell

The generations that yougot killed by a flyingBanana.

Death by drowning has honorIf the wind picked you upand slammed youAgainst a mountain boulderThis would not carry shameButto suffer a mango smashingYour skullor a plantain hitting yourTemple at 70 miles per houris the ultimate disgrace.

The campesino takes off his hat—As a sign of respecttoward the fury of the windAnd says:Don't worry about the noiseDon't worry about the waterDon't worry about the wind—If you are going outbeware of mangoesAnd all such beautifulsweet things.

“Jabberwocky” by: Lewis Carroll

`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son! The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand: Long time the manxome foe he sought --So rested he by the Tumtum tree, And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood, The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,Came whiffling through the tulgey wood, And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!He left it dead, and with its head He went galumphing back.

"And, has thou slain the Jabberwock?

Come to my arms, my beamish boy!O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!' He chortled in his joy.

`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe. “Fire and Ice” by: Robert Frost

Some say the world will end in fire,Some say in ice.From what I've tasted of desireI hold with those who favor fire.But if it had to perish twice,I think I know enough of hateTo say that for destruction iceIs also greatAnd would suffice.

“All Watched over by Machines of Loving Grace” by: Richard Brautigan

I like to think (andthe sooner the better!)of a cybernetic meadowwhere mammals and computerslive together in mutuallyprogramming harmonylike pure watertouching clear sky.

I like to think(right now, please!)of a cybernetic forestfilled with pines and electronicswhere deer stroll peacefullypast computersas if they were flowerswith spinning blossoms.

I like to think(it has to be!)of a cybernetic ecologywhere we are free of our laborsand joined back to nature,returned to our mammalbrothers and sisters,and all watched overby machines of loving grace.

“There Will Come Soft Rains” by: Sara Teasdale

There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground,And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;

And frogs in the pools singing at night,And wild plum trees in tremulous white;

Robins will wear their feathery fire,Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;

And not one will know of the war, not oneWill care at last when it is done.

Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree,If mankind perished utterly;

And Spring herself, when she woke at dawnWould scarcely know that we were gone.

“The Horses” by: Edwin Muir

Barely a twelvemonth afterThe seven days war that put the world to sleep,Late in the evening the strange horses came.By then we had made our covenant with silence,But in the first few days it was so stillWe listened to our breathing and were afraid.On the second dayThe radios failed; we turned the knobs; no answer.On the third day a warship passed us, heading north,Dead bodies piled on the deck. On the sixth dayA plane plunged over us into the sea. ThereafterNothing. The radios dumb;And still they stand in corners of our kitchens,And stand, perhaps, turned on, in a million roomsAll over the world. But now if they should speak,If on a sudden they should speak again,If on the stroke of noon a voice should speak,We would not listen, we would not let it bringThat old bad world that swallowed its children quickAt one great gulp. We would not have it again.Sometimes we think of the nations lying asleep,Curled blindly in impenetrable sorrow,And then the thought confounds us with its strangeness.The tractors lie about our fields; at eveningThey look like dank sea-monsters couched and waiting.We leave them where they are and let them rust:'They'll molder away and be like other loam.'We make our oxen drag our rusty plows,Long laid aside. We have gone backFar past our fathers' land.And then, that eveningLate in the summer the strange horses came.We heard a distant tapping on the road,A deepening drumming; it stopped, went on againAnd at the corner changed to hollow thunder.We saw the headsLike a wild wave charging and were afraid.We had sold our horses in our fathers' timeTo buy new tractors. Now they were strange to us

As fabulous steeds set on an ancient shield.Or illustrations in a book of knights.We did not dare go near them. Yet they waited,Stubborn and shy, as if they had been sentBy an old command to find our whereaboutsAnd that long-lost archaic companionship.In the first moment we had never a thoughtThat they were creatures to be owned and used.Among them were some half a dozen coltsDropped in some wilderness of the broken world,Yet new as if they had come from their own Eden.Since then they have pulled our plows and borne our loadsBut that free servitude still can pierce our hearts.Our life is changed; their coming our beginning.

“I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud” by: William Wordsworth

I wandered lonely as a cloudThat 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 shineAnd twinkle on the milky way,They stretched in never-ending lineAlong the margin of a bay:Ten thousand saw I at a glance,Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but theyOut-did the sparkling waves in glee:A poet could not but be gay,In such a jocund company:I gazed---and gazed---but little thoughtWhat wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lieIn vacant or in pensive mood,They flash upon that inward eyeWhich is the bliss of solitude;And then my heart with pleasure fills,And dances with the daffodils.

“The Eagle” by: Alfred, Lord Tennyson

He clasps the crag with crooked hands;Close to the sun in lonely lands,Ringed with the azure world, he stands.

The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;He watches from his mountain walls,And like a thunderbolt he falls.

“Hope is a thing with feathers” by: Emily Dickinson

Hope is the thing with feathersThat perches in the soul,And sings the tune--without the words,And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;And sore must be the stormThat could abash the little birdThat kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land,And on the strangest sea;Yet, never, in extremity,It asked a crumb of me.

“Dream Deferred” by: Langston Hughes

What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry uplike a raisin in the sun?Or fester like a sore--And then run?Does it stink like rotten meat?Or crust and sugar over--like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sagslike a heavy load.

Or does it explode?

“Dreams” by: Langston Hughes

Hold fast to dreamsFor if dreams dieLife is a broken-winged birdThat cannot fly.Hold fast to dreamsFor when dreams goLife is a barren fieldFrozen with snow.

“Blackberry Eating” by: Galway Kinnell

I love to go out in late Septemberamong the fat, overripe, icy, black blackberriesto eat blackberries for breakfast,the stalks very prickly, a penaltythey earn for knowing the black artof blackberry-making; and as I stand among themlifting the stalks to my mouth, the ripest berriesfall almost unbidden to my tongue,as words sometimes do, certain peculiar wordslike strengths or squinched,

many-lettered, one-syllabled lumps,which I squeeze, squinch open, and splurge wellin the silent, startled, icy, black languageof blackberry -- eating in late September.

“Memory” by: Margaret Walker

I can remember the wind-swept streets of cities On cold and blustery nights, on rainy days; Heads under shabby felts and parasolsAnd shoulders hunched against a sharp concern; Seeing hurt bewilderment on poor faces, Smelling a deep and sinister unrest These brooding people cautiously caress; Hearing ghostly marching on pavement stone And closing fast around their squares of hate. I can remember seeing them alone, At work, and in their tenements at homes. I can remember hearing all they said:Their muttering protests their whispered oaths, And all that spells their living in distress

“Woman’s Work” by: Julia Alvarez

Who says a woman’s work isn’t high art?She’d challenge as she scrubbed the bathroom tiles. Keep your house as if the address were your heart.

We’d clean the whole upstairs before we’d start Downstairs. I’d sigh, hearing my friends outside. Doing her woman’s work was a hard art.

To practice when the summer sun would bar The floor I swept till she was satisfied. She kept me prisoner in her housebound heart.

She’d shine the tines of forks, the wheels of carts, Cut lacy lattices for all her pies. Her woman’s work was nothing less than art.

And, I, her masterpiece since I was smart, Was primed, praised, polished, scolded and advised To keep a house much better than my heart.

I did not want to be her counterpart! I struck out…but became my mother’s child:A woman working at home on her art, Housekeeping paper as if it were her heart.

“Meciendo” (“Rocking”) by: Gabriela Minstral

El mar sus millares de olas

mece divino. Oyendo a los mares amantes mezo a mi niño. El viento errabundo en la noche mece los trigos. Oyendo a los vientos amantes mezo a mi niño. Dios padre sus miles de mundos mece sin ruido. Sintiendo su mano en la sombra mezo a mi niño.

The sea divinely rocks its thousands of waves. Listening to the loving seas I rock my child. The wandering wind rocks the wheat through the night. Listening to the loving winds I rock my child. God the Father soundlessly rocks his myriad worlds. Feeling the touch of his hand in the dark I rock my child.

“Eulogy for a Hermit Crab” by: Pattiann Rogers

You were consistently brave On these surf-drenched rocks, in and out of their salty Slough holes around which the entire expanse Of the glinting grey sea and the single spotlight Of the sun went spinning and spinning and spinning In a tangle of blinding spume and spray And pistol-shot collisions your whole life long. You stayed. Even with the wet icy wind of the moon Circling your silver case night after night after night You were here.

And by the gritty orange curve of your claws, By the soft, wormlike gripOf your hinter body, by the unrelieved wonder Of you black-pea eyes, by the mystified swing And swing and swing of your touching antennae, You maintained your name meticulously, you keptYour name intact exactly, day after day after day. No one could say you were less than perfect In the hermitage of your crabness.

Now, beside the racing, incomprehensible racket Of the sea stretching its great girth foreverBack and forth between this direction and another, Please let the words of this proper praise I speak Become the identical and proper sound of my mourning.

“Uphill” by: Christina Rossetti

Does the road wind up-hill all the way?Yes, to the very end.Will the day's journey take the whole long day?From morn to night, my friend. But is there for the night a resting-place?A roof for when the slow dark hours begin.May not the darkness hide it from my face?You cannot miss that inn. Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?Those who have gone before.Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?They will not keep you standing at that door. Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?Of labour you shall find the sum.Will there be beds for me and all who seek?Yea, beds for all who come.

“Summer” by: Walter Dean Myers

I like hot days, hot daysSweat is what you got days Bugs buzzin from cousin to cousin Juices dripping Running and ripping Catch the one you love days

Birds peeping Old men sleeping Lazy days, daisies lay Beaming and dreaming Of hot days, hot daysSweat is what you got days

“Ecclesiastes” 3:1-8 (King James Version)

There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven:

a time to be born and a time to die, a time to plant and a time to uproot,

a time to kill and a time to heal, a time to tear down and a time to build,

a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance,

a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them, a time to embrace and a time to refrain,

a time to search and a time to give up, a time to keep and a time to throw away,

a time to tear and a time to mend, a time to be silent and a time to speak,

a time to love and a time to hate, a time for war and a time for peace.

“The Bells” by: Edgar Allen Poe

I

Hear the sledges with the bells -Silver bells!What a world of merriment their melody foretells!How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,In the icy air of night!While the stars that oversprinkleAll the heavens, seem to twinkleWith a crystalline delight;Keeping time, time, time,In a sort of Runic rhyme,To the tintinnabulation that so musically wellsFrom the bells, bells, bells, bells,Bells, bells, bells -From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.

II

Hear the mellow wedding bells -Golden bells!What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!Through the balmy air of nightHow they ring out their delight! -From the molten - golden notes,And all in tune,What a liquid ditty floatsTo the turtle - dove that listens, while she gloatsOn the moon!Oh, from out the sounding cells,What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!How it swells!How it dwellsOn the Future! - how it tellsOf the rapture that impelsTo the swinging and the ringingOf the bells, bells, bells -Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,Bells, bells, bells -To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!

III

Hear the loud alarum bells -Brazen bells!What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells!

In the startled ear of nightHow they scream out their affright!Too much horrified to speak,They can only shriek, shriek,Out of tune,In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire,Leaping higher, higher, higher,With a desperate desire,And a resolute endeavorNow - now to sit, or never,By the side of the pale - faced moon.Oh, the bells, bells, bells!What a tale their terror tellsOf Despair!How they clang, and clash and roar!What a horror they outpourOn the bosom of the palpitating air!Yet the ear, it fully knows,By the twanging,And the clanging,How the danger ebbs and flows;Yet the ear distinctly tells,In the jangling,And the wrangling,How the danger sinks and swells,By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells -Of the bells -Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,Bells, bells, bells -In the clamor and the clanging of the bells!

IV

Hear the tolling of the bells -Iron bells!What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!In the silence of the night,How we shiver with affrightAt the melancholy menace of their tone!For every sound that floatsFrom the rust within their throatsIs a groan.And the people - ah, the people -They that dwell up in the steeple,All alone,And who, tolling, tolling, tolling,In that muffled monotone,Feel a glory in so rollingOn the human heart a stone -They are neither man nor woman -They are neither brute nor human -They are Ghouls: -And their king it is who tolls: -And he rolls, rolls, rolls,RollsA paean from the bells!

And his merry bosom swellsWith the paean of the bells!And he dances, and he yells;Keeping time, time, time,In a sort of Runic rhyme,To the paean of the bells: -Of the bells:Keeping time, time, timeIn a sort of Runic rhyme,To the throbbing of the bells -Of the bells, bells, bells: -To the sobbing of the bells: -Keeping time, time, time,As he knells, knells, knells,In a happy Runic rhyme,To the rolling of the bells -Of the bells, bells, bells -To the tolling of the bells -Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,Bells, bells, bells, -To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.

“The Long and Winding Road” by: The Beatles

The long and winding roadThat leads to your doorWill never disappearIve seen that road beforeIt always leads me herLead me to you door

The wild and windy nightThat the rain washed awayHas left a pool of tearsCrying for the dayWhy leave me standing hereLet me know the way

Many times Ive been aloneAnd many times Ive criedAny way youll never knowThe many ways Ive tried

But still they lead me backTo the long winding roadYou left me standing hereA long long time agoDont leave me waiting hereLead me to your door

“The Seven Ages of Man” by: William Shakespeare

All the world's a stage,

And all the men and women merely players,They have their exits and entrances,And one man in his time plays many parts,His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.Then, the whining schoolboy with his satchelAnd shining morning face, creeping like snailUnwillingly to school. And then the lover,Sighing like furnace, with a woeful balladMade to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,Jealous in honour, sudden, and quick in quarrel,Seeking the bubble reputationEven in the cannon's mouth. And then the justiceIn fair round belly, with good capon lin'd,With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut,Full of wise saws, and modern instances,And so he plays his part. The sixth age shiftsInto the lean and slipper'd pantaloon,With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side,His youthful hose well sav'd, a world too wide,For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,Turning again towards childish treble, pipesAnd whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,That ends this strange eventful history,Is second childishness and mere oblivion,Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

“On the Grasshopper and the Cricket” by: John Keates

The poetry of earth is never dead:When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,And hide in cooling trees, a voice will runFrom hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead;That is the Grasshopper's--he takes the leadIn summer luxury,--he has never doneWith his delights; for when tired out with funHe rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.The poetry of earth is ceasing never:On a lone winter evening, when the frostHas wrought a silence, from the stove there shrillsThe Cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever,And seems to one in drowsiness half lost,The Grasshopper's among some grassy hills.

“Sonnet 30” by: William Shakespeare

When to the sessions of sweet silent thoughtI summon up remembrance of things past,I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste:

Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow,For precious friends hid in death's dateless night,And weep afresh love's long since cancell'd woe,And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight:Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,And heavily from woe to woe tell o'erThe sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,Which I new pay as if not paid before.But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,All losses are restored and sorrows end.

“An Ancient Gesture” by: Edna St. Vincent Millay

I thought, as I wiped my eyes on the corner of my apron:Penelope did this too.And more than once: you can't keep weaving all dayAnd undoing it all through the night;Your arms get tired, and the back of your neck gets tight;And along towards morning, when you think it will never be light,And your husband has been gone, and you don't know where, for years.Suddenly you burst into tears;There is simply nothing else to do.

And I thought, as I wiped my eyes on the corner of my apron:This is an ancient gesture, authentic, antique,In the very best tradition, classic, Greek;Ulysses did this too.But only as a gesture,—a gesture which impliedTo the assembled throng that he was much too moved to speak.He learned it from Penelope...Penelope, who really cried.

“Siren Song” by: Margaret Atwood

This is the one song everyonewould like to learn: the songthat is irresistible:

the song that forces mento leap overboard in squadronseven though they see beached skulls

the song nobody knowsbecause anyone who had heard itis dead, and the others can’t remember.Shall I tell you the secretand if I do, will you get meout of this bird suit?I don’t enjoy it heresquatting on this islandlooking picturesque and mythicalwith these two feathery maniacs,I don’t enjoy singingthis trio, fatal and valuable.

I will tell the secret to you,

to you, only to you.Come closer. This song

is a cry for help: Help me!Only you, only you can,you are unique

at last. Alasit is a boring songbut it works every time.

“Prologue and Epilogue from the Odyssey” by: Derek Walcott

“Ithaca” by: Constantine Cavafy

When you set out on your journey to Ithaca,pray that the road is long,full of adventure, full of knowledge.The Lestrygonians and the Cyclops,the angry Poseidon -- do not fear them:You will never find such as these on your path,if your thoughts remain lofty, if a fineemotion touches your spirit and your body.The Lestrygonians and the Cyclops,the fierce Poseidon you will never encounter,if you do not carry them within your soul,if your soul does not set them up before you.

Pray that the road is long.That the summer mornings are many, when,with such pleasure, with such joyyou will enter ports seen for the first time;stop at Phoenician markets,and purchase fine merchandise,mother-of-pearl and coral, amber and ebony,and sensual perfumes of all kinds,as many sensual perfumes as you can;visit many Egyptian cities,to learn and learn from scholars.

Always keep Ithaca in your mind.To arrive there is your ultimate goal.But do not hurry the voyage at all.It is better to let it last for many years;and to anchor at the island when you are old,rich with all you have gained on the way,not expecting that Ithaca will offer you riches.

Ithaca has given you the beautiful voyage.Without her you would have never set out on the road.She has nothing more to give you.

And if you find her poor, Ithaca has not deceived you.Wise as you have become, with so much experience,

you must already have understood what Ithacas mean.