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From
you have I been absent in the spring... (Sonnet 98) |
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From
you have I been absent in the spring, When
proud-pied April, dressed in all his trim, Hath
put a spirit of youth in everything, That
heavy Saturn laughed and leaped with him, Yet
nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell Of
different flowers in odor and in hue, Could
make me any summer's story tell, Or
from their proud lap pluck them where they grew. Nor
did I wonder at the lily's white, Nor
praise the deep vermilion in the rose; They
were but sweet, but figures of delight, Drawn
after you, you pattern of all those. Yet seemed it winter still, and, you
away, As with your shadow I with these did
play. |
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Spring
is like a perhaps hand |
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III Spring
is like a perhaps hand (which
comes carefully out
of Nowhere)arranging a
window,into which people look(while people
stare arranging
and changing placing carefully
there a strange thing
and a known thing here)and changing
everything carefully spring
is like a perhaps Hand
in a window (carefully
to and
fro moving New and Old
things,while people
stare carefully moving
a perhaps fraction
of flower here placing an
inch of air there)and without breaking anything. |
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The
Chimney-Sweeper |
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When
my mother died I was very young, And
my father sold me while yet my tongue Could
scarcely cry 'Weep! weep! weep!
weep!' So
your chimneys I sweep, and in soot I sleep. There's
little Tom Dacre, who cried when his head, That
curled like a lamb's back, was shaved; so I said, 'Hush,
Tom! never mind it, for, when your head's bare, You
know that the soot cannot spoil your white hair.' And
so he was quiet, and that very night, As
Tom was a-sleeping, he had such a sight!-- That
thousands of sweepers, Dick, Joe, Ned, and Jack, Were
all of them locked up in coffins of black. And
by came an angel, who had a bright key, And
he opened the coffins, and set them all free; Then
down a green plain, leaping, laughing, they run And
wash in a river, and shine in the sun. Then
naked and white, all their bags left behind, They
rise upon clouds, and sport in the wind; And
the angel told Tom, if he'd be a good boy, He'd
have God for his father, and never want joy. And
so Tom awoke, and we rose in the dark, And
got with our bags and our brushes to work. Though
the morning was cold, Tom was happy and warm: So,
if all do their duty, they need not fear harm. |
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The Tyger |
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Tyger! Tyger!
burning bright In
the forests of the night, What
immortal hand or eye Could
frame thy fearful symmetry? In
what distant deeps or skies Burnt
the fire of thine eyes? On
what wings dare he aspire? What
the hand, dare sieze the fire? And
what shoulder, & what art, Could
twist the sinews of thy heart? And
when thy heart began to beat, What
dread hand? & what dread feet? What
the hammer? what the chain? In
what furnace was thy brain? What
the anvil? what dread grasp Dare
its deadly terrors clasp? When
the stars threw down their spears, And
water'd heaven with their tears, Did
he smile his work to see? Did
he who made the Lamb make thee? Tyger! Tyger!
burning bright In
the forests of the night, What
immortal hand or eye Dare
frame thy fearful symmetry? |
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How Do
I Love Thee? (Sonnet 43) |
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How
do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I
love thee to the depth and breadth and height My
soul can reach, when feeling out of sight For
the ends of being and ideal grace. I
love thee to the level of every day's Most
quiet need, by sun and candle-light. I
love thee freely, as men strive for right. I
love thee purely, as they turn from praise. I
love thee with the passion put to use In
my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith. I
love thee with a love I seemed to lose With
my lost saints. I love thee with the breath, Smiles,
tears, of all my life; and, if God choose, I
shall but love thee better after death. |
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The
Bean Eaters |
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They
eat beans mostly, this old yellow pair. Dinner
is a casual affair. Plain
chipware on a plain and creaking wood, Tin
flatware. Two
who are Mostly Good. Two
who have lived their day, But
keep on putting on their clothes And
putting things away. And
remembering . . . Remembering,
with twinklings and twinges, As
they lean over the beans in their rented back room that is full of beads and receipts and
dolls and cloths, tobacco
crumbs, vases and fringes. |
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the
sonnet-ballad |
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Oh
mother, mother, where is happiness? They
took my lover's tallness off to war, Left
me lamenting. Now I cannot guess What
I can use an empty heart-cup for. He
won't be coming back here any more. Some
day the war will end, but, oh, I knew When
he went walking grandly out that door That
my sweet love would have to be untrue. Would
have to be untrue. Would have to court Coquettish
death, whose impudent and strange Possessive
arms and beauty (of a sort) Can
make a hard man hesitate--and change. And
he will be the one to stammer, "Yes." Oh
mother, mother, where is happiness? |
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Jabberwocky |
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'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
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. |
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Fame is
a fickle food (1659)
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Fame
is a fickle food Upon
a shifting plate Whose
table once a Guest
but not The
second time is set. Whose
crumbs the crows inspect And
with ironic caw Flap
past it to the Farmer's Corn – Men
eat of it and die. |
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The
Snow Storm |
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Announced
by all the trumpets of the sky, Arrives
the snow, and, driving o'er the fields, Seems
nowhere to alight: the whited air Hides
hills and woods, the river, and the heaven, And
veils the farmhouse at the garden's end. The
sled and traveler stopped, the courier's feet Delayed,
all friends shut out, the housemates sit Around
the radiant fireplace, enclosed In
a tumultuous privacy of storm. Come see the north wind's masonry. Out
of an unseen quarry evermore Furnished
with tile, the fierce artificer Curves
his white bastions with projected roof Round
every windward stake, or tree, or door. Speeding,
the myriad-handed, his wild work So
fanciful, so savage, nought cares he For
number or proportion. Mockingly, On
coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths; A
swan-like form invests the hidden thorn; Fills
up the farmer's lane from wall to wall, Maugre the farmer's sighs; and, at the
gate, A
tapering turret overtops the work. And
when his hours are numbered, and the world Is
all his own, retiring, as he were not, Leaves,
when the sun appears, astonished Art To
mimic in slow structures, stone by stone, Built
in an age, the mad wind's night-work, The
frolic architecture of the snow. |
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Mending
Wall |
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by Robert Frost |
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Something
there is that doesn't love a wall, That
sends the frozen-ground-swell under it, And
spills the upper boulders in the sun; And
makes gaps even two can pass abreast. The
work of hunters is another thing: I
have come after them and made repair Where
they have left not one stone on a stone, But
they would have the rabbit out of hiding, To
please the yelping dogs. The gaps I
mean, No
one has seen them made or heard them made, But
at spring mending-time we find them there. I
let my neighbor know beyond the hill; And
on a day we meet to walk the line And
set the wall between us once again. We
keep the wall between us as we go. To
each the boulders that have fallen to each. And
some are loaves and some so nearly balls We
have to use a spell to make them balance: 'Stay
where you are until our backs are turned!' We
wear our fingers rough with handling them. Oh,
just another kind of outdoor game, One
on a side. It comes to little more: There
where it is we do not need the wall: He
is all pine and I am apple orchard. My
apple trees will never get across And
eat the cones under his pines, I tell him. He
only says, 'Good fences make good neighbors.' Spring
is the mischief in me, and I wonder If
I could put a notion in his head: 'Why
do they make good neighbors? Isn't it Where
there are cows? But here there are no
cows. Before
I built a wall I'd ask to know What
I was walling in or walling out, And
to whom I was like to give offense. Something
there is that doesn't love a wall, That
wants it down.' I could say 'Elves' to
him, But
it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather He
said it for himself. I see him there Bringing
a stone grasped firmly by the top In
each hand, like an old-stone savage armed. He
moves in darkness as it seems to me, Not
of woods only and the shade of trees. He
will not go behind his father's saying, And
he likes having thought of it so well He
says again, 'Good fences make good neighbors.' |
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The
Tropics of |
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by Claude McKay |
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Bananas
ripe and green, and ginger root And
tangerines and mangoes and grape fruit, Fit for the highest prize at parish
fairs, Sat
in the window, bringing memories of fruit-trees laden by low-singing
rills, And
dewy dawns, and mystical skies In benediction over nun-like hills. My
eyes grow dim, and I could no more gaze; A wave of longing through my body swept, And,
hungry for the old, familiar ways I turned aside and bowed my head and
wept. |
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The
Daffodils |
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I
wandered lonely as a cloud That 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 shine And twinkle on the Milky Way, They
stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten
thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing
their heads in sprightly dance. The
waves beside them danced, but they Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: A
Poet could not but be gay, In such a jocund company: I
gazed--and gazed--but little thought What
wealth the show to me had brought: For
oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They
flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And
then my heart with pleasure fills, And
dances with the daffodils. |
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