The Rainy Day

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The day is cold, and dark, and dreary; It rains, and the wind is never weary; The vine still clings to the mouldering wall, But at every gust more dead leaves fall,.    And the day is dark and dreary.

My life is cold and dark and dreary. It rains and the wind is never weary. My thoughts still cling to the mouldering past. And youth's fond hopes fall thick in the blast.    And my life is dark and dreary.

Be still, sad heart and cease repining Behind the clouds is the sun still shining Thy fate is the common fate of all Into each life some rain must fall    Some days must be dark and dreary (116)

Sonnet XVIII

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. (114)

Hamlet (Act II, Scene 2) Free Verse Speeches by Shakespeare

What a piece of work is man! How noble in reason! How infinite in faculties!In form and movement, How express and admirable! In action, how like an angel! In apprehension, how like a god! The beauty of the world! The paragon of animals! (44)

For Whom the Bell Tolls

John Donne

No man is an island, Entire of itself.  Each is a piece of the continent,   A part of the main.    If a clod be washed away by the sea,     Europe is the less.      As well as if a promontory were.       As well as if a manner of thine own        Or of thine friend’s were.         Each man’s death diminishes me,          For I am involved in mankind.           Therefore, send not to know            For whom the bell tolls,             It tolls for thee. (79)

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

Dylan Thomas

Do not go gentle into that good night,Old age should burn and rave at close of day;Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,Because their words had forked no lightning theyDo not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how brightTheir frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sightBlind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on that sad height,Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.

Do not go gentle into that good night.Rage, rage against the dying of the light. (168)

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 ourselvesAnd 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 played,Their lessons scarcely done;

We passed the fields of gazing grain,We passed the setting sun.

We paused before a house that seemedA swelling of the ground;

The roof was scarcely visible,The cornice but a mound.

Since then 't is centuries; but eachFeels shorter than the day

I first surmised the horses' headsWere toward eternity. (107)

Fire and Ice

Robert Frost

Some say the world will end in fire;

Some say in ice.

From what I've tasted of desire

I hold with those who favor fire.

But if it had to perish twice,

I think I know enough of hate

To know that for destruction ice

Is also great

And would suffice. (51)

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 here

To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer

To stop without a farmhouse near

Between the woods and frozen lake

The darkest evening of the year.

 

He gives his harness bells a shake

To ask if there is some mistake.

The only other sound's the sweep

Of easy wind and downy flake.

 

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep. (108)

The Road Not Taken

Robert Frost

 Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it 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 there

Had worn them really about the same,

 

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no 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. (144)

JABBERWOCKY

Lewis Carroll

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves

Did gyre and gimble in the wade;

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 wiffling 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 hast 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. (167)

Ozymandias

Percy Bysshe 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.' (112)

Nothing Gold Can Stay

Robert Frost

 Nature's first green is gold,

Her hardest hue to hold.

Her early leaf's a flower;

But only so an hour.

Then leaf subsides to leaf,

So Eden sank to grief,

So dawn goes down to day

Nothing gold can stay. (40)

Kubla Khan

(An exerpt)

Samuel Taylor Coleridge

 

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan

A stately pleasure-dome decree:

Where Alph, the sacred river, ran

Through caverns measureless to man

Down to a sunless sea.

So twice five miles of fertile ground

With walls and towers were girdled round:

And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,

Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;

And here were forests ancient as the hills,

Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.....

It was a miracle of rare device,

A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice! (80)

Talk to Animals

Chief Dan George

If you talk to animals they will talk with you

and you will know each other.

If you do not talk to them you will not know them,

and what you do not know you will fear.

What one fears one destroys. (42)

I Stood upon a High Place

Stephen Crane

I stood upon a high place,

And saw, below, many devils

Running, leaping, and carousing in sin.

One looked up, grinning,

And said, "Comrade! Brother!" (25)

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 advertise -- you know!

How dreary to be somebody!

How public like a frog

To tell one's name the livelong day

To an admiring bog! (44)

A Poison Tree

William Blake

I was angry with my friend;I told my wrath, my wrath did end.

I was angry with my foe:I told it not, my wrath did grow.

And I waterd it in fears,Night and morning with my tears:

And I sunned it with smiles,And with soft deceitful wiles.

And it grew both day and night,Till it bore an apple bright.

And my foe beheld it shine,And he knew that it was mine.

And into my garden stole.When the night had veiled the pole;

In the morning glad I see,My foe outstretchd beneath the tree. (101)

Invictus

William Ernest Henley

Out of the night that covers me,Black as the Pit from pole to pole,

I thank whatever gods may beFor my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstanceI have not winced nor cried aloud.Under the bludgeonings of chanceMy head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tearsLooms but the Horror of the shade,

And yet the menace of the yearsFinds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,How charged with punishments the scroll.

I am the master of my fate:I am the captain of my soul. (103)

O Captain My Captain Walt Whitman

O Captain my Captain! our fearful trip is done,The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won,The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;But O heart! heart! heart!O the bleeding drops of red,Where on the deck my Captain lies,Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;Rise up--for you the flag is flung for you the bugle trills,For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths for you the shores a-crowding,For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;Here Captain! dear father!This arm beneath your head!It is some dream that on the deck,You've fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;Exult O shores, and ring O bells!But I, with mournful tread,Walk the deck my Captain lies,Fallen cold and dead. (202)

A HUNTING MORNINGSir Arthur Conan Doyle

Put the saddle on the mare, For the wet winds blow; There's winter in the air, And autumn all below. For the red leaves are flying And the red bracken dying, And the red fox lying Where the oziers grow. 

Put the bridle on the mare, For my blood runs chill; And my heart, it is there, On the heather-tufted hill, With the gray skies o'er us, And the long-drawn chorus Of a running pack before us From the find to the kill. 

Then lead round the mare, For it's time that we began, And away with thought and care, Save to live and be a man, While the keen air is blowing, And the huntsman holloing, And the black mare going As the black mare can. (127)

A Noiseless Patient Spidera poem by Walt Whitman

A noiseless patient spider,I marked where on a promontory it stood isolated,Marked how to explore the vacant vast surrounding,It launched forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself,Ever unreeling them, ever tirelessly speeding them.

And you O my soul where you stand,Surrounded, detached, in measureless oceans of space,Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing, seeking the spheres to connect them,Till the bridge you will need be formed, till the ductile anchor hold,Till the gossamer thread you fling catch somewhere, O my soul. (86)

Dreams Langston Hughes

Hold fast to dreams For if dreams dieLife is a broken-winged birdThat cannot fly.

Hold fast to dreamsFor when dreams goLife is a barren fieldFrozen with snow. (32)

This Is Just To Say William Carlos Williams

I have eatenthe plumsthat were inthe icebox

and whichyou were probablysavingfor breakfast

Forgive methey were deliciousso sweetand so cold (28)

I, Too, Sing America Langston Hughes

I, too, sing America.

I am the darker brother.They send me to eat in the kitchenWhen company comes,But I laugh,And eat well,And grow strong.

Tomorrow,I'll be at the tableWhen company comes.Nobody'll dareSay to me,"Eat in the kitchen,"Then.

Besides, They'll see how beautiful I amAnd be ashamed--

I, too, am America. (62)

How Do I Love Thee? (Sonnet 43) Elizabeth Barrett Browning

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.I love thee to the depth and breadth and heightMy soul can reach, when feeling out of sightFor the ends of being and ideal grace.I love thee to the level of every day'sMost 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 useIn my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.I love thee with a love I seemed to loseWith 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. (127)

Sick Shel Silverstein

"I cannot go to school today,"Said little Peggy Ann McKay."I have the measles and the mumps,A gash, a rash and purple bumps.My mouth is wet, my throat is dry,I'm going blind in my right eye.My tonsils are as big as rocks,I've counted sixteen chicken poxAnd there's one more--that's seventeen,And don't you think my face looks green?My leg is cut--my eyes are blue--It might be instamatic flu.I cough and sneeze and gasp and choke,I'm sure that my left leg is broke--My hip hurts when I move my chin,My belly button's caving in,My back is wrenched, my ankle's sprained,My 'pendix pains each time it rains.My nose is cold, my toes are numb.I have a sliver in my thumb.My neck is stiff, my voice is weak,I hardly whisper when I speak.My tongue is filling up my mouth,I think my hair is falling out.My elbow's bent, my spine ain't straight,My temperature is one-o-eight.My brain is shrunk, I cannot hear,There is a hole inside my ear.I have a hangnail, and my heart is--what?What's that? What's that you say?You say today is. . .Saturday?G'bye, I'm going out to play!" (217)

Where the Sidewalk Ends by Shel SilversteinThere is a place where the sidewalk endsAnd before the street begins,And there the grass grows soft and white,And there the sun burns crimson bright,And there the moon-bird rests from his flightTo cool in the peppermint wind.

Let us leave this place where the smoke blows blackAnd the dark street winds and bends.Past the pits where the asphalt flowers growWe shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,And watch where the chalk-white arrows goTo the place where the sidewalk ends.

Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,For the children, they mark, and the children, they knowThe place where the sidewalk ends. (127)

Messy Room by Shel SilversteinWhosever room this is should be ashamed!His underwear is hanging on the lamp.His raincoat is there in the overstuffed chair,And the chair is becoming quite mucky and damp.His workbook is wedged in the window,His sweater's been thrown on the floor.His scarf and one ski are beneath the TV,And his pants have been carelessly hung on the door.His books are all jammed in the closet,His vest has been left in the hall.A lizard named Ed is asleep in his bed,And his smelly old sock has been stuck to the wall.Whosever room this is should be ashamed!Donald or Robert or Willie or--Huh? You say it's mine? Oh, dear,I knew it looked familiar! (125)

i carry your heart with me by E. E. Cummingsi carry your heart with me(i carry it inmy heart)i am never without it(anywherei go you go,my dear; and whatever is doneby only me is your doing,my darling)i fearno fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i wantno world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)and it's you are whatever a moon has always meantand whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows(here is the root of the root and the bud of the budand the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which growshigher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)(129)

A Red, Red Rose by Robert BurnsO my Luve's like a red, red roseThat's newly sprung in June;O my Luve's like the melodieThat's sweetly played in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,So deep in luve am I;And I will luve thee still, my dear,Till a' the seas gang dry:

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,And the rocks melt wi' the sun;I will luve thee still, my dear,While the sands o' life shall run.

And fare thee weel, my only Luve,And fare thee weel awhile!And I will come again, my Luve,Tho' it ware ten thousand mile.

O Captain! My Captain! by Walt Whitman1O CAPTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip is done; The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won; The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring: But O heart! heart! heart!O the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead. 

2O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; Rise up-for you the flag is flung-for you the bugle trills;For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths-for you the shores a-crowding; For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning; Here Captain! dear father! This arm beneath your head; It is some dream that on the deck,You've fallen cold and dead. 

3My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still; My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will; The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done; From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won;Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells! But I, with mournful tread, Walk the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.

The Cremation of Sam McGee

Robert W. Service

There are strange things done in the midnight sun By the men who moil for gold;

The Arctic trails have their secret tales That would make your blood run cold;

The Northern Lights have seen queer sights, But the queerest they ever did see

Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge I cremated Sam McGee.

Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.Why he left his home in the South to roam ‘round the Pole, God only knows.He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;Though he’d often say in his homely way that “he’d sooner live in hell.”

On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.Talk of your cold! through the parka’s fold it stabbed like a driven nail.If our eyes we’d close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn’t see;It wasn’t much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.

And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,And the dogs were fed, and the stars o’erhead were dancing heel and toe,He turned to me, and “Cap,” says he, “I’ll cash in this trip, I guess;And if I do, I’m asking that you won’t refuse my last request.”

Well, he seemed so low that I couldn’t say no; then he says with a sort of moan:“It’s the cursed cold, and it’s got right hold till I’m chilled clean through to the bone.Yet ‘taint being dead—it’s my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you’ll cremate my last remains.”

A pal’s last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.

There wasn’t a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,With a corpse half hid that I couldn’t get rid, because of a promise given;It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: “You may tax your brawn and brains,But you promised true, and it’s up to you to cremate those last remains.”

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,Howled out their woes to the homeless snows—O God! how I loathed the thing.

And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;And I’d often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.

—Word Info image © ALL rights reserved.

Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the “Alice May.”And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;Then “Here,” said I, with a sudden cry, “is my cre-ma-tor-eum.”

Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;The flames just soared and the furnace roared—such a blaze you seldom see;Then I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.

Then I made a hike, for I didn’t like to hear him sizzle so;And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don’t know why;And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.

I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: “I’ll just take a peep inside.I guess he’s cooked, and it’s time I looked;” . . . then the door I opened wide.

—Word Info image © ALL rights reserved.

And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: “Please close that door.It’s fine in here, but I greatly fear you’ll let in the cold and storm— Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it’s the first time I’ve been warm.”

There are strange things done in the midnight sun By the men who moil for gold;

The Arctic trails have their secret tales That would make your blood run cold;

The Northern Lights have seen queer sights, But the queerest they ever did see

Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge I cremated Sam McGee. (900)

The Raven

Edgar Allen Poe

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.`'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door -Only this, and nothing more.'

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrowFrom my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore -For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore -Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtainThrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating`'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; -This it is, and nothing more,'

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,`Sir,' said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,That I scarce was sure I heard you' - here I opened wide the door; -Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Lenore!'This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Lenore!'Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.`Surely,' said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice;Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -'Tis the wind and nothing more!'

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door -Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door -Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,`Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, `art sure no craven.Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore -Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!'Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,

Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore;For we cannot help agreeing that no living human beingEver yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door -Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door,With such name as `Nevermore.'

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only,That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered -Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before -On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.'Then the bird said, `Nevermore.'

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,`Doubtless,' said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store,Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disasterFollowed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden boreOf "Never-nevermore."'

But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linkingFancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yoreMeant in croaking `Nevermore.'

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressingTo the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease recliningOn the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censerSwung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.`Wretch,' I cried, `thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent theeRespite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!'Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! -Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore -Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!'Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil!By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore -Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore -Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?'Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting -`Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door!Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!'Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sittingOn the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floorShall be lifted - nevermore! (1125)

One Inch TallShel Silverstein

If you were only one inch tall, you'd ride a worm to school.The teardrop of a crying ant would be your swimming pool.A crumb of cake would be a feastAnd last you seven days at least,A flea would be a frightening beastIf you were one inch tall.

If you were only one inch tall, you'd walk beneath the door,And it would take about a month to get down to the store.A bit of fluff would be your bed,You'd swing upon a spider's thread,And wear a thimble on your headIf you were one inch tall.

You'd surf across the kitchen sink upon a stick of gum.You couldn't hug your mama, you'd just have to hug her thumb.You'd run from people's feet in fright,To move a pen would take all night,(This poem took fourteen years to write--'Cause I'm just one inch tall). (155)

Preamble to the Constitution of the United States of AmericaGouverneur Morris

We the People of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect Union, establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defence,[1] promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity, do ordain and establish this Constitution for the United States of America. (52)

The 50 United States and Their Capitals

Montgomery  Alabama Helena  MontanaJuneau Alaska Lincoln Nebraska

Phoenix Arizona Carson City NevadaLittle Rock Arkansas Concord New Hampshire

Sacramento California Trenton New JerseyDenver Colorado Santa Fe New Mexico

Hartford Connecticut Albany New YorkDover Delaware Raleigh North Carolina

Tallahassee Florida Bismarck North DakotaAtlanta Georgia Columbus Ohio

Honolulu Hawaii Oklahoma City OklahomaBoise Idaho Salem Oregon

Springfield Illinois Harrisburg PennsylvaniaIndianapolis Indiana Providence Rhode IslandDes Moines Iowa Columbia South Carolina

Topeka Kansas Pierre South DakotaFrankfort Kentucky Nashville Tennessee

Baton Rouge Louisiana Austin TexasAugusta Maine Salt Lake City Utah

Annapolis Maryland Montpelier VermontBoston Massachusetts Richmond Virginia

Lansing Michigan Olympia WashingtonSaint Paul Minnesota Charleston West Virginia

Jackson Mississippi Madison WisconsinJefferson City Missouri Cheyenne Wyoming (120)

The Gettysburg Address

Abraham Lincoln

Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent, a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.

Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battle-field of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.

But, in a larger sense, we can not dedicate -- we can not consecrate -- we can not hallow -- this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us -- that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion -- that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain -- that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom -- and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth. (278)

The Declaration of Independence John Hancock

IN CONGRESS, JULY 4, 1776

The unanimous Declaration of the thirteen united States of America

(Part I)

When in the Course of human events it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected

them with another and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and of

Nature's God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel

them to the separation.

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain

unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness. — That to secure these rights, Governments are

instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed, — That whenever any Form of Government

becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its

foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and

Happiness. Prudence, indeed, will dictate that Governments long established should not be changed for light and transient causes;

and accordingly all experience hath shewn that mankind are more disposed to suffer, while evils are sufferable than to right

themselves by abolishing the forms to which they are accustomed. But when a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing

invariably the same Object evinces a design to reduce them under absolute Despotism, it is their right, it is their duty, to throw off

such Government, and to provide new Guards for their future security. — Such has been the patient sufferance of these Colonies;

and such is now the necessity which constrains them to alter their former Systems of Government. The history of the present King

of Great Britain is a history of repeated injuries and usurpations, all having in direct object the establishment of an absolute Tyranny

over these States. To prove this, let Facts be submitted to a candid world… (355)

The Declaration of Independence John Hancock(Part II)

(Part II)

…We, therefore, the Representatives of the united States of America, in General Congress, Assembled, appealing to the Supreme

Judge of the world for the rectitude of our intentions, do, in the Name, and by Authority of the good People of these Colonies,

solemnly publish and declare, That these united Colonies are, and of Right ought to be Free and Independent States, that they are

Absolved from all Allegiance to the British Crown, and that all political connection between them and the State of Great Britain, is

and ought to be totally dissolved; and that as Free and Independent States, they have full Power to levy War, conclude Peace,

contract Alliances, establish Commerce, and to do all other Acts and Things which Independent States may of right do. — And for

the support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of Divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our

Lives, our Fortunes, and our sacred Honor. (158)

'If'

Rudyard Kipling

If you can keep your head when all about youAre losing theirs and blaming it on you,If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,But make allowance for their doubting too;If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,Or being hated, don't give way to hating,And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master,If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;If you can meet with Triumph and DisasterAnd treat those two impostors just the same;If you can bear to hear the truth you've spokenTwisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winningsAnd risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,And lose, and start again at your beginningsAnd never breath a word about your loss;If you can force your heart and nerve and sinewTo serve your turn long after they are gone,And so hold on when there is nothing in youExcept the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch,If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,If all men count with you, but none too much;If you can fill the unforgiving minuteWith sixty seconds' worth of distance run,Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son! (294)

A Farewell Lord Alfred Tennyson

Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea,Thy tribute wave deliver:

No more by thee my steps shall be,For ever and for ever.

Flow, softly flow, by lawn and lea,A rivulet then a river;

No where by thee my steps shall be,For ever and for ever.

But here will sigh thine alder tree,And here thine aspen shiver;

And here by thee will hum the bee,For ever and for ever.

A thousand suns will stream on thee,A thousand moons will quiver;

But not by thee my steps shall be,For ever and for ever (99)

Forebearance Ralph Waldo Emerson

Hast thou named all the birds without a gun;Loved the wood-rose, and left it on its stalk;At rich men's tables eaten bread and pulse;Unarmed, faced danger with a heart of trust;And loved so well a high behaviorIn man or maid, that thou from speech refrained,Nobility more nobly to repay?O be my friend, and teach me to be thine! (65)

Meeting At Night Robert Browning

I.The grey sea and the long black land;

And the yellow half-moon large and low;And the startled little waves that leap

In fiery ringlets from their sleep,As I gain the cove with pushing prow,

And quench its speed i' the slushy sand.

II.Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach;Three fields to cross till a farm appears;

A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratchAnd blue spurt of a lighted match,

And a voice less loud, thro' its joys and fears,Than the two hearts beating each to each! (95)

The Book-Worms Robert Burns

Through and through th' inspir'd leaves, Ye maggots, make your windings; But O respect his lordship's taste, And spare his golden bindings. (22)

Quiet Girl Langston Hughes

I would liken youTo a night without stars

Were it not for your eyes.I would liken you

To a sleep without dreamsWere it not for your songs. (30)

A sepal, petal, and a thorn Emily Dickinson

A sepal, petal, and a thornUpon a common summer's morn A flask of Dew - A Bee or two A Breeze - a caper in the trees And I'm a Rose (32)

The Star Spangled BannerFrancis Scott Key

O say! can you see, by the dawn's early light,  What so proudly we hail'd at the twilight's last gleaming?Whose broad stripes and bright stars, thro' the perilous fight,  O'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly streaming?And the rockets' red glare, the bombs bursting in air,  Gave proof thro' the night, that our flag was still there.O say! does that Star-Spangled Banner yet wave  O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave? (80)On the shore, dimly seen thro' the mist of the deep,  Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes,What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep,As it fitfully blows, half conceals, half discloses?Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam,  In full glory reflected now shines in the stream.'Tis the Star-Spangled Banner.  O long may it wave  O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave. (78)And where is that band who so vauntingly swore,  That the havoc of war and the battle's confusionA home and a country should leave us no more?  Their blood has wash'd out their foul footstep's pollution.No refuge could save the hireling and slave  From the terror of flight or the gloom of the grave,And the Star-Spangled Banner in triumph doth wave  O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave. (76)O thus be it ever when freemen shall stand  Between their lov'd home and war's desolation,Blest with vict'ry and peace, may the Heav'n-rescued land  Praise the pow'r that hath made and preserv'd us a nation.Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just,  And this be our motto, "In God is our Trust."And the Star-Spangled Banner in triumph shall wave  O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave. (76)

Zombie VerbsMr. Pettingill

Is are am was were have has had.Do does did, can could shall should?Will would, may might!Be being been. (23)

SONNET 130Shakespeare

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 delightThan in the breath that from my mistress reeks.I love to hear her speak, yet well I knowThat 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. (127)

Ghost HouseRobert Frost

I Dwell in a lonely house I know That vanished many a summer ago, And left no trace but the cellar walls,

And a cellar in which the daylight falls, And the purple-stemmed wild raspberries grow.

O'er ruined fences the grape-vines shield The woods come back to the mowing field;

The orchard tree has grown one copse Of new wood and old where the woodpecker chops;

The footpath down to the well is healed.

I dwell with a strangely aching heart In that vanished abode there far apart

On that disused and forgotten road That has no dust-bath now for the toad.

Night comes; the black bats tumble and dart;

The whippoorwill is coming to shout And hush and cluck and flutter about:

I hear him begin far enough away Full many a time to say his say Before he arrives to say it out.

It is under the small, dim, summer star. I know not who these mute folk are Who share the unlit place with me--

Those stones out under the low-limbed tree Doubtless bear names that the mosses mar.

They are tireless folk, but slow and sad, Though two, close-keeping, are lass and lad,--

With none among them that ever sings, And yet, in view of how many things,

As sweet companions as might be had. (219)

The ApparationJohn Donne

When by thy scorn, O murd'ress, I am dead,And that thou thinkst thee freeFrom all solicitation from me,Then shall my ghost come to thy bed,And thee, feign'd vestal, in worse arms shall see :Then thy sick taper will begin to wink,And he, whose thou art then, being tired before,Will, if thou stir, or pinch to wake him, thinkThou call'st for more,And, in false sleep, will from thee shrink :And then, poor aspen wretch, neglected thouBathed in a cold quicksilver sweat wilt lie,A verier ghost than I.What I will say, I will not tell thee now,Lest that preserve thee ; and since my love is spent,I'd rather thou shouldst painfully repent,Than by my threatenings rest still innocent. (132)

SilenceEdgar Allan Poe

There are some qualities - some incorporate things,That have a double life, which thus is made

A type of that twin entity which springsFrom matter and light, evinced in solid and shade.

There is a two-fold Silence - sea and shore-Body and soul. One dwells in lonely places,

Newly with grass o'ergrown; some solemn graces,Some human memories and tearful lore,

Render him terrorless: his name's "No More."He is the corporate Silence: dread him not!

No power hath he of evil in himself;But should some urgent fate (untimely lot!)

Bring thee to meet his shadow (nameless elf,That haunteth the lone regions where hath trod

No foot of man,) commend thyself to God! (118)

Witch-WifeEdna St. Vincent Millay

She is neither pink nor pale,        And she never will be all mine;She learned her hands in a fairy-tale,        And her mouth on a valentine.

She has more hair than she needs;        In the sun `tis a woe to me!And her voice is a string of coloured beads,        Or steps leading into the sea.

She loves me all that she can,         And her ways to my ways resign; But she was not made for any man,         And she never will be all mine. (85)

Hallowe’enJohn Kendrick Bangs

The ghosts of all things past parade, Emerging from the mist and shade

That hid them from our gaze, And, full of song and ringing mirth,

In one glad moment of rebirth, And again they walk the ways of earth

As in the ancient days.

The beacon light shines on the hill, The will-o'-wisps the forests fill With flashes filched from noon;

And witches on their broomsticks spry Speed here and yonder in the sky,

And lift their strident voices highUnto the Hunter's Moon.

The air resounds with tuneful notes From myriads of straining throats,

All hailing Folly Queen; So join the swelling choral throng,

Forget your sorrow and your wrong, In one glad hour of joyous song

To honor Hallowe'en! (122)

The Little GhostEdna St Vincent Millay

I KNEW her for a little ghost That in my garden walked; The wall is high -- higher than most -- And the green gate was locked.

And yet I did not think of that Till after she was gone -- I knew her by the broad white hat, All ruffled, she had on.

By the dear ruffles round her feet, By her small hands that hung In their lace mitts, austere and sweet, Her gown's white folds among.

I watched to see if she would stay, What she would do -- and oh! She looked as if she liked the way I let my garden grow!

She bent above my favourite mint With conscious garden grace, She smiled and smiled -- there was no hint Of sadness in her face.

She held her gown on either side To let her slippers show, And up the walk she went with pride, The way great ladies go.

And where the wall is built in new And is of ivy bare She paused -- then opened and passed through A gate that once was there. (183)

The Scariest ThingMairi Tereas Gallagher

Some things are scary Others are not,Like ghosts and goblins,And things that rot

Cats and dogs are not scary At all, All they do is play chaseAnd catch a ball.

But the scariest thing Creeps around at night, Looking for victims To scratch and bite.

It hides its face It's too ugly to see, It rules all the monsters,Both tall and wee.

Those who've seen his face,Their eyes burst and bleed,They beg for mercy "Spare us, spare us," they plead.

But he's not a giver He takes what he finds,All sorts of people Both sightseers and blind.

You've got the picture,That he is the kingOf everything scary, Every little scary thing.

So watch out at night 'cause ifBy him you're seen,He'll give you an evil grinAnd say...

HAPPY HALLOWEEN! (141)

Jack-O-LanternAnonymous

Jack-o-lantern, Jack-o-lantern, You are such a funny sight. As you sit there by the window, Looking out into the night. You were once a sturdy pumpkin, growing on a curly vine. Now you are a Jack-o-lantern, See your night lights shine. (41)

The Hearse SongA Traditional Children’s Rhyme

Don't you ever laugh as the hearse goes by,       For you may be the next to die.

      They wrap you up in a big white sheet       From your head down to your feet.

      They put you in a big black box       And cover you up with dirt and rocks.

      All goes well for about a week,       Then your coffin begins to leak.

      The worms crawl in, the worms crawl out,       The worms play pinochle on your snout.

      They eat your eyes, they eat your nose,       They eat the jelly between your toes.

      A big green worm with rolling eyes       Crawls in your stomach and out your eyes.

      Your stomach turns a slimy green,       And pus pours out like whipping cream.

      You spread it on a slice of bread,       And that's what you eat when you are dead. (138)

Three Witches from MacbethWilliam Shakespeare

Round about the cauldron go;   In the poison’d entrails throw.   Toad, that under cold stone    Days and nights hast thirty one  Swelter’d venom sleeping got,   Boil thou first i’ the charmed pot.  

     Double, double toil and trouble;      Fire burn and cauldron bubble.  

Fillet of a fenny snake,   In the cauldron boil and bake;   Eye of newt, and toe of frog,   Wool of bat, and tongue of dog,   Adder’s fork, and blind-worm’s sting,   Lizard’s leg, and howlet’s wing,   For a charm of powerful trouble, Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.  

     Double, double toil and trouble;        Fire burn and cauldron bubble. (99)

The HagRobert Herrick

The Hag is astride,    This night for to ride;The Devill and shee together:    Through thick, and through thin,    Now out, and then in,Though ne’r so foule be the weather.

    A Thorn or a Burr    She takes for a Spurre:With a lash of a Bramble she rides now,    Through Brakes and through Bryars,    O’re Ditches, and Mires,She followes the Spirit that guides now.

    No Beast, for his food,    Dares now range the wood;But husht in his laire he lies lurking:    While mischiefs, by these,    On Land and on Seas,At noone of Night are working,

    The storme will arise,    And trouble the skies;This night, and more for the wonder,    The ghost from the Tomb    Affrighted shall come,Cal’d out by the clap of the Thunder. (130)

A LamentPercy Bysshe Shelly

O World! O Life! O Time!On whose last steps I climb,

Trembling at that where I had stood before;When will return the glory of your prime?

No more -Oh, never more!

Out of the day and nightA joy has taken flight:

Fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoarMove my faint heart with grief, but with delight

No more -Oh, never more! (65)

Again That Time of Year is HereAuthor Unknown

Again that time of year is hereWhen wreaths elves lights appearThe hue of Santa's suit and sleighAdding color the wintry skies of grayUntil pansies roses tulips growMelting all of the Season's snowBut I like holly gifts Advent moreThan all that springtime holds in storeFor it's this I'll tell you I so adore:Again that time of year is hereWhen wreaths elves lights appear. (72)

HolidaysHenry Wadsworth Longfellow

The holiest of all holidays are thoseKept by ourselves in silence and apart;The secret anniversaries of the heart,When the full river of feeling overflows;--The happy days unclouded to their close;The sudden joys that out of darkness startAs flames from ashes; swift desires that dartLike swallows singing down each wind that blows!White as the gleam of a receding sail,White as a cloud that floats and fades in air,White as the whitest lily on a stream,These tender memories are;--a fairy taleOf some enchanted land we know not where,But lovely as a landscape in a dream. (107)

'Twas just this time, last year, I died. Emily Dickinson

'Twas just this time, last year, I died.I know I heard the Corn,When I was carried by the Farms --It had the Tassels on --

I thought how yellow it would look --When Richard went to mill --And then, I wanted to get out,But something held my will.

I thought just how Red -- Apples wedgedThe Stubble's joints between --And the Carts stooping round the fieldsTo take the Pumpkins in --

I wondered which would miss me, least,And when Thanksgiving, came,If Father'd multiply the plates --To make an even Sum --

And would it blur the Christmas gleeMy Stocking hang too highFor any Santa Claus to reachThe Altitude of me --

But this sort, grieved myself,And so, I thought the other way,How just this time, some perfect year --Themself, should come to me -- (152)

 

Twas the Night before Christmas

Clement Clarke Mooreor Henry Livingston

Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the houseNot a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,In hopes that St Nicholas soon would be there.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads.

And mamma in her ‘kerchief, and I in my cap,Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.

Away to the window I flew like a flash,Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snowGave the lustre of mid-day to objects below.

When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,But a miniature sleigh, and eight tinny reindeer.

With a little old driver, so lively and quick,I knew in a moment it must be St Nick.

More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!

"Now Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!On, Comet! On, Cupid! on, on Donner and Blitzen!

To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!"

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky.

So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,With the sleigh full of Toys, and St Nicholas too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roofThe prancing and pawing of each little hoof.

As I drew in my head, and was turning around,Down the chimney St Nicholas came with a bound.

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot.

A bundle of Toys he had flung on his back,And he looked like a peddler, just opening his pack.

His eyes-how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!

His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow.

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.

He had a broad face and a little round belly,That shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly!

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself!

A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,And filled all the stockings, then turned with a jerk.

And laying his finger aside of his nose,And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose!

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.

But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he drove out of sight,"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!" (540)

A Christmas Carol poem

Samuel Taylor Coleridge

I The shepherds went their hasty way,And found the lowly stable-shedWhere the Virgin-Mother lay:And now they checked their eager tread,For to the Babe, that at her bosom clung,A Mother's song the Virgin-Mother sung.II They told her how a glorious light,Streaming from a heavenly throng.Around them shone, suspending night!While sweeter than a mother's song,Blest Angels heralded the Savior's birth,Glory to God on high! and Peace on Earth.IIIShe listened to the tale divine,And closer still the Babe she pressed:And while she cried, the Babe is mine!The milk rushed faster to her breast:Joy rose within her, like a summer's morn;Peace, Peace on Earth! the Prince of Peace is born.IVThou Mother of the Prince of Peace,Poor, simple, and of low estate!That strife should vanish, battle cease,O why should this thy soul elate? Sweet Music's loudest note, the Poet's story,Didst thou ne'er love to hear of fame and glory?VAnd is not War a youthful king,A stately Hero clad in mail?Beneath his footsteps laurels spring;Him Earth's majestic monarchs hailTheir friends, their playmate! and his bold bright eyeCompels the maiden's love-confessing sigh.VITell this in some more courtly scene,To maids and youths in robes of state!I am a woman poor and mean,And wherefore is my soul elate.War is a ruffian, all with guilt defiled,That from the aged father's tears his child!VIIA murderous fiend, by fiends adored,He kills the sire and starves the son;The husband kills, and from her boardSteals all his widow's toil had won;Plunders God's world of beauty; rends awayAll safety from the night, all comfort from the day.VIIIThen wisely is my soul elate,That strife should vanish, battle cease:I'm poor and of low estate, The Mother of the Prince of Peace.Joy rises in me, like a summer's morn:Peace, Peace on Earth! The Prince of Peace is born! (341)

I Heard the Bells

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

I heard the bells on Christmas DayTheir old, familiar carols play,

And wild and sweetThe words repeat

Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And thought how, as the day had come,The belfries of all Christendom

Had rolled alongThe unbroken song

Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Till, ringing, singing on its wayThe world revolved from night to day,

A voice, a chime,A chant sublime

Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Then from each black, accursed mouthThe cannon thundered in the South,

And with the soundThe Carols drowned

Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And in despair I bowed my head;‘There is no peace on earth,’ I said;

‘For hate is strong,And mocks the song

Of peace on earth, good-will to men!’

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:‘God is not dead; nor doth he sleep!

The Wrong shall fail,The Right prevail,

With peace on earth, good-will to men!’ (165)

AUTUMN Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Thou comest, Autumn, heralded by the rain,With banners, by great gales incessant fanned,Brighter than brightest silks of Samarcand,And stately oxen harnessed to thy wain!Thou standest, like imperial Charlemagne,Upon thy bridge of gold; thy royal handOutstretched with benedictions o'er the land,Blessing the farms through all thy vast domain!Thy shield is the red harvest moon, suspendedSo long beneath the heaven's o'er-hanging eaves;Thy steps are by the farmer's prayers attended;Like flames upon an altar shine the sheaves;And, following thee, in thy ovation splendid,Thine almoner, the wind, scatters the golden leaves! (100)

Thanksgiving Edgar Albert Guest

Gettin' together to smile an' rejoice, An' eatin' an' laughin' with folks of your choice;An' kissin' the girls an' declarin' that theyAre growin' more beautiful day after day;Chattin' an' braggin' a bit with the men,Buildin' the old family circle again;Livin' the wholesome an' old-fashioned cheer,Just for awhile at the end of the year.Greetings fly fast as we crowd through the doorAnd under the old roof we gather once moreJust as we did when the youngsters were small;Mother's a little bit grayer, that's all.Father's a little bit older, but stillReady to romp an' to laugh with a will.Here we are back at the table againTellin' our stories as women an' men.

Bowed are our heads for a moment in prayer;Oh, but we're grateful an' glad to be there.Home from the east land an' home from the west,Home with the folks that are dearest an' best.Out of the sham of the cities afarWe've come for a time to be just what we are.Here we can talk of ourselves an' be frank,Forgettin' position an' station an' rank.

Give me the end of the year an' its funWhen most of the plannin' an' toilin' is done;Bring all the wanderers home to the nest,Let me sit down with the ones I love best,Hear the old voices still ringin' with song,See the old faces unblemished by wrong,See the old table with all of its chairsAn' I'll put soul in my Thanksgivin' prayers. (264)

Thanksgiving Mac Hammond

The man who stands above the bird, his knifeSharp as a Turkish scimitar, first removesA thigh and leg, half the supportOn which the turkey used to stand. ThisLeg and thigh he sets on an extraPlate. All his weight now on One leg, he lunges for the wing, the wingOn the same side of the bird from whichHe has just removed the leg and thigh.He frees the wing enough to exposeThe breast, the wing not severed butCollapsed down to the platter. One handHolding the fork, piercing the turkeyAnywhere, he now beings to slice the breast,Afflicted by small pains in his chest,A kind of heartburn for which there is no Cure. He serves the hostess breast, her Own breast rising and falling. And so on,Till all the guests are served, the turkeyNow a wreck, the carver exhausted, aMere carcass of his former self. EveryoneSays thanks to the turkey carver and beginsTo eat, thankful for the cold turkeyAnd the Republic for which it stands. (181)

Autumn Movement Carl Sandburg

I CRIED over beautiful things knowing no beautiful thing lasts.

The field of cornflower yellow is a scarf at the neck of the copper sunburned woman, the mother of the year, the taker of seeds.

The northwest wind comes and the yellow is torn full of holes, new beautiful things come in the first spit of snow on the northwest wind, and the old things go, not one lasts. (69)

Autumn: A DirgePercy Bysshe Shelley

The warm sun is falling, the bleak wind is wailing,The bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers are dying,

And the YearOn the earth is her death-bed, in a shroud of leaves dead,

Is lying.Come, Months, come away,

From November to May,In your saddest array;

Follow the bierOf the dead cold Year,

And like dim shadows watch by her sepulchre.

The chill rain is falling, the nipped worm is crawling,The rivers are swelling, the thunder is knelling

For the Year;The blithe swallows are flown, and the lizards each gone

To his dwelling.Come, Months, come away;Put on white, black and gray;

Let your light sisters play--Ye, follow the bier

Of the dead cold Year,And make her grave green with tear on tear. (132)

Blow, Blow, Thou Winter Wind William Shakespeare

Blow, blow, thou winter wind Thou art not so unkind As man's ingratitude; Thy tooth is not so keen, Because thou art not seen, Although thy breath be rude.

Heigh-ho! sing, heigh-ho! unto the green holly: Most freindship if feigning, most loving mere folly: Then heigh-ho, the holly! This life is most jolly.

Freeze, freeze thou bitter sky, That does not bite so nigh As benefits forgot: Though thou the waters warp, Thy sting is not so sharp As a friend remembered not. Heigh-ho! sing, heigh-ho! unto the green holly: Most freindship if feigning, most loving mere folly: Then heigh-ho, the holly! This life is most jolly. (107)

WinterWilliam Shakespeare

When icicles hang by the wall And Dick the shepherd blows his nail

And Tom bears logs into the hall, And milk comes frozen home in pail,

When Blood is nipped and ways be foul, Then nightly sings the staring owl,

Tu-who; Tu-whit, tu-who: a merry note,

While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

When all aloud the wind doth blow, And coughing drowns the parson's saw,

And birds sit brooding in the snow, And Marian's nose looks red and raw When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,

Then nightly sings the staring owl, Tu-who;

Tu-whit, tu-who: a merry note, While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. (107)

- From A Christmas Carol Charles Dickens

"There are some upon this earth of yours," returned the Spirit, "who lay claim to know us, and who do their deeds of passion, pride, ill-will, hatred, envy, bigotry, and selfishness in our name, who are as strange to us and all out kith and kin, as if they had never lived. Remember that, and charge their doings on themselves, not us." (62)

- From A Christmas CarolCharles Dickens

"External heat and cold had little influence on Scrooge. No warmth could warm, no wintry weather chill him. No wind that blew was bitterer than he, no falling snow was more intent upon its purpose, no pelting rain less open to entreaty." (42)

-From A Christmas CarolCharles Dickens

"Again the Ghost sped on, above the black and heaving sea--on, on--until, being far away, as he told Scrooge, from any shore, they lighted on a ship. They stood beside the helmsman at the wheel, the look-out in the bow, the officers who had the watch; dark, ghostly figures in their several stations; but every man among them hummed a Christmas tune, or had a Christmas thought, or spoke below his breath to his companion of some bygone Christmas Day, with homeward hopes belonging to it. And every man on board, waking or sleeping, good or bad, had had a kinder word for another on that day than on any day in the year; and had shared to some extent in its festivities; and had remembered those he cared for at a distance, and had known that they delighted to remember him." (144)

The Tell-Tale Heart

Edgar Allan Poe

True! --Nervous --very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses --not destroyed --not

dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How, then, am I mad? Hearken!

and observe how healthily --how calmly I can tell you the whole story. (80)

It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain; but once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object there was none. Passion there was none. I loved

the old man. He had never wronged me. He had never given me insult. For his gold I had no desire. I think it was his eye! Yes, it was this! He had the eye of a

vulture --a pale blue eye, with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me, my blood ran cold; and so by degrees --very gradually --I made up my mind to take the life of

the old man, and thus rid myself of the eye forever. (117)

Now this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded --with what caution --

with what foresight --with what dissimulation I went to work! I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week before I killed him. And every night, about

midnight, I turned the latch of his door and opened it --oh so gently! And then, when I had made an opening sufficient for my head, I put in a dark lantern, all closed,

closed, that no light shone out, and then I thrust in my head. Oh, you would have laughed to see how cunningly I thrust it in! I moved it slowly --very, very slowly, so

that I might not disturb the old man's sleep. It took me an hour to place my whole head within the opening so far that I could see him as he lay upon his bed. Ha!

Would a madman have been so wise as this, And then, when my head was well in the room, I undid the lantern cautiously-oh, so cautiously --cautiously (for the

hinges creaked) --I undid it just so much that a single thin ray fell upon the vulture eye. And this I did for seven long nights --every night just at midnight --but I found

the eye always closed; and so it was impossible to do the work; for it was not the old man who vexed me, but his Evil Eye. And every morning, when the day broke, I

went boldly into the chamber, and spoke courageously to him, calling him by name in a hearty tone, and inquiring how he has passed the night. So you see he would

have been a very profound old man, indeed, to suspect that every night, just at twelve, I looked in upon him while he slept. (326)

Upon the eighth night I was more than usually cautious in opening the door. A watch's minute hand moves more quickly than did mine. Never before that night had I

felt the extent of my own powers --of my sagacity. I could scarcely contain my feelings of triumph. To think that there I was, opening the door, little by little, and he

not even to dream of my secret deeds or thoughts. I fairly chuckled at the idea; and perhaps he heard me; for he moved on the bed suddenly, as if startled. Now you

may think that I drew back --but no. His room was as black as pitch with the thick darkness, (for the shutters were close fastened, through fear of robbers,) and so I

knew that he could not see the opening of the door, and I kept pushing it on steadily, steadily. I had my head in, and was about to open the lantern, when my thumb

slipped upon the tin fastening, and the old man sprang up in bed, crying out --"Who's there?" I kept quite still and said nothing. For a whole hour I did not move a

muscle, and in the meantime I did not hear him lie down. He was still sitting up in the bed listening; --just as I have done, night after night, hearkening to the death

watches in the wall. (235)

Presently I heard a slight groan, and I knew it was the groan of mortal terror. It was not a groan of pain or of grief --oh, no! --it was the low stifled sound that arises

from the bottom of the soul when overcharged with awe. I knew the sound well. Many a night, just at midnight, when all the world slept, it has welled up from my own

bosom, deepening, with its dreadful echo, the terrors that distracted me. I say I knew it well. I knew what the old man felt, and pitied him, although I chuckled at

heart. I knew that he had been lying awake ever since the first slight noise, when he had turned in the bed. His fears had been ever since growing upon him. He had

been trying to fancy them causeless, but could not. He had been saying to himself --"It is nothing but the wind in the chimney --it is only a mouse crossing the floor,"

or "It is merely a cricket which has made a single chirp." Yes, he had been trying to comfort himself with these suppositions: but he had found all in vain. All in vain;

because Death, in approaching him had stalked with his black shadow before him, and enveloped the victim. And it was the mournful influence of the unperceived

shadow that caused him to feel --although he neither saw nor heard --to feel the presence of my head within the room. (252)

When I had waited a long time, very patiently, without hearing him lie down, I resolved to open a little --a very, very little crevice in the lantern. So I opened it --you

cannot imagine how stealthily, stealthily --until, at length a simple dim ray, like the thread of the spider, shot from out the crevice and fell full upon the vulture eye. It

was open --wide, wide open --and I grew furious as I gazed upon it. I saw it with perfect distinctness --all a dull blue, with a hideous veil over it that chilled the very

marrow in my bones; but I could see nothing else of the old man's face or person: for I had directed the ray as if by instinct, precisely upon the damned spot. And

have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but over-acuteness of the sense? --now, I say, there came to my ears a low, dull, quick sound, such as a

watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I knew that sound well, too. It was the beating of the old man's heart. It increased my fury, as the beating of a drum

stimulates the soldier into courage. (207)

But even yet I refrained and kept still. I scarcely breathed. I held the lantern motionless. I tried how steadily I could maintain the ray upon the eve. Meantime the

hellish tattoo of the heart increased. It grew quicker and quicker, and louder and louder every instant. The old man's terror must have been extreme! It grew louder, I

say, louder every moment! --do you mark me well I have told you that I am nervous: so I am. And now at the dead hour of the night, amid the dreadful silence of that

old house, so strange a noise as this excited me to uncontrollable terror. Yet, for some minutes longer I refrained and stood still. But the beating grew louder, louder!

I thought the heart must burst. And now a new anxiety seized me --the sound would be heard by a neighbour! The old man's hour had come! With a loud yell, I threw

open the lantern and leaped into the room. He shrieked once --once only. In an instant I dragged him to the floor, and pulled the heavy bed over him. I then smiled

gaily, to find the deed so far done. But, for many minutes, the heart beat on with a muffled sound. This, however, did not vex me; it would not be heard through the

wall. At length it ceased. The old man was dead. I removed the bed and examined the corpse. Yes, he was stone, stone dead. I placed my hand upon the heart and

held it there many minutes. There was no pulsation. He was stone dead. His eve would trouble me no more. (276)

If still you think me mad, you will think so no longer when I describe the wise precautions I took for the concealment of the body. The night waned, and I worked

hastily, but in silence. First of all I dismembered the corpse. I cut off the head and the arms and the legs. I then took up three planks from the flooring of the chamber,

and deposited all between the scantlings. I then replaced the boards so cleverly, so cunningly, that no human eye --not even his --could have detected anything

wrong. There was nothing to wash out --no stain of any kind --no blood-spot whatever. I had been too wary for that. A tub had caught all --ha! ha! When I had made

an end of these labors, it was four o'clock --still dark as midnight. As the bell sounded the hour, there came a knocking at the street door. I went down to open it with

a light heart, --for what had I now to fear? There entered three men, who introduced themselves, with perfect suavity, as officers of the police. A shriek had been

heard by a neighbour during the night; suspicion of foul play had been aroused; information had been lodged at the police office, and they (the officers) had been

deputed to search the premises. I smiled, --for what had I to fear? I bade the gentlemen welcome. The shriek, I said, was my own in a dream. The old man, I

mentioned, was absent in the country. I took my visitors all over the house. I bade them search --search well. I led them, at length, to his chamber. I showed them his

treasures, secure, undisturbed. In the enthusiasm of my confidence, I brought chairs into the room, and desired them here to rest from their fatigues, while I myself,

in the wild audacity of my perfect triumph, placed my own seat upon the very spot beneath which reposed the corpse of the victim. (340)

The officers were satisfied. My manner had convinced them. I was singularly at ease. They sat, and while I answered cheerily, they chatted of familiar things. But,

ere long, I felt myself getting pale and wished them gone. My head ached, and I fancied a ringing in my ears: but still they sat and still chatted. The ringing became

more distinct: --It continued and became more distinct: I talked more freely to get rid of the feeling: but it continued and gained definiteness --until, at length, I found

that the noise was not within my ears. No doubt I now grew very pale; --but I talked more fluently, and with a heightened voice. Yet the sound increased --and what

could I do? It was a low, dull, quick sound --much such a sound as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I gasped for breath --and yet the officers heard it not. I

talked more quickly --more vehemently; but the noise steadily increased. I arose and argued about trifles, in a high key and with violent gesticulations; but the noise

steadily increased. Why would they not be gone? I paced the floor to and fro with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the observations of the men --but the noise

steadily increased. Oh God! What could I do? I foamed --I raved --I swore! I swung the chair upon which I had been sitting, and grated it upon the boards, but the

noise arose over all and continually increased. It grew louder --louder --louder! And still the men chatted pleasantly, and smiled. Was it possible they heard not?

Almighty God! --no, no! They heard! --they suspected! --they knew! --They were making a mockery of my horror!-this I thought, and this I think. But anything was

better than this agony! Anything was more tolerable than this derision! I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer! I felt that I must scream or die! And now --

again! --hark! Louder! Louder! Louder! Louder! (350)

"Villains!" I shrieked, "Dissemble no more! I admit the deed! --tear up the planks! Here, here! --It is the beating of his hideous heart!" (26)