THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE

Christopher Marlowe
SONNET 18
COME live with me, and be my love;
William Shakespeare
And we will all the pleasures prove
That hills and valleys, dales and fields,
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Woods, or steepy mountain yields.
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And we will sit upon the rocks,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date:
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
By shallow rivers, to whose falls
And often is his gold complexion dimmed,
Melodious birds sing madrigals.
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature's changing course untrimmed:
And I will make thee beds of roses
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
And a thousand fragrant posies;
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st,
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Nor shall death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle;
When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st,
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
A gown made of the finest wool
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair-lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;
Sonnet 29
A belt of straw and ivy-buds, William Shakespeare
With coral clasps and amber-studs:
And if these pleasures may thee move, When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes
Come live with me, and be my love. I all alone beweep my outcast state,
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
The shepherd-swains shall dance and sing And look upon myself, and curse my fate,
For thy delight each May-morning: Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
If these delights thy mind may move, Featured like him, like him with friends possessed,
Then live with me and be my love. Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
Yet in these thoughts my self almost despising,
Sonnet 30 Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
Like to the lark at break of day arising
When to the sessions of sweet silent thought From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;
I summon up remembrance of things past, For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought, That then I scorn to change my state with kings.
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, Sonnet 50
And weep afresh love's long since cancell'd woe, TheWilliam
Nymph's Shakespeare
Reply to the Shepherd
And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight: Sir Walter Raleigh
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone, Not marble, nor the gilded monuments
And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er IF allOfthe
princes, shalllove
world and outlive
werethis powerful rhyme;
young,
The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan, AndButtruthyou shall shine
in every more bright
shepherd's tongue,in these contents
Which I new pay as if not paid before. Than unswept stone, besmear'd
These pretty pleasures might me move with sluttish time.
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, When wasteful war shall
To live with thee and be thy love. statues overturn,
All losses are restor'd and sorrows end. And broils root out the work of masonry,
SONNET 116 TimeNor Marsthe
drives hisflocks
sword, norfield
from war'sto quick
fold, fire shall burn
William Shakespeare When The livingrage
rivers recordandofrocks
yourgrow
memory.
cold;
And'Gainst
Philomel death, and alldumb;
becometh oblivious enmity
Let me not to the marriage of true minds The Shall you pace forth;
rest complains your
of cares topraise
come.shall still find room
Admit impediments. Love is not love Even in the eyes of all posterity
Which alters when it alteration finds, The That
flowerswear dothis
fade,world
andout to thefields
wanton ending doom.
Or bends with the remover to remove: To wayward winter reckoning yields: arise,
So, till the judgment that yourself
O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark, You live
A honey in this,
tongue, and dwell
a heart in lovers' eyes.
of gall,
That looks on tempests and is never shaken; Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall.
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. The gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies
Within his bending sickle's compass come; Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten,—
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, In folly ripe, in reason rotten.
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved, Thy belt of straw and ivy buds,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved. Thy coral clasps and amber studs,
All these in me no means can move
To come to thee and be thy love.

But could youth last and love still breed,

Had joys no date nor age no need,
Then these delights my mind might move
Song to Celia
To live with thee and be thy love.
mcpapango_englit 1
Source: Hannah, J., Ed. The Poems of Sir Walter Raleigh.
London: George Bell and Sons, 1891. 11-12.
Ben Jonson

Drink to me, only with thine eyes

And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss but in the cup,
And I'll not look for wine.
The thirst that from the soul doth rise
Doth ask a drink divine:
But might I of Jove's nectar sup
I would not change for thine.

I sent thee late a rosy wreath,

Not so much honouring thee
As giving it a hope that there
It could not withered be
But thou thereon didst only breath
And sent'st it back to me:
Since, when it grows and smells, I swear,
Not of itself but thee.

A RENOUNCING OF LOVE
Sir Thomas Wyatt

FAREWELL, Love, and all thy laws forever ;

Thy baited hooks shall tangle me no more.
Senec, and Plato, call me from thy lore,
To perfect wealth, my wit for to endeavour ;
In blind error when I did persever,
Thy sharp repulse, that pricketh aye so sore,
Taught me in trifles that I set no store ;
But scaped forth thence, since, liberty is lever
Therefore, farewell ! go trouble younger hearts,
And in me claim no more authority :
With idle youth go use thy property,
And thereon spend thy many brittle darts :
    For, hitherto though I have lost my time,
    Me list no longer rotten boughs to clime.

My True-Love Hath My Heart (from ARCADIA) Easter Wings

Sir Philip Sidney George Herbert

My true-love hath my heart, and I have his, LORD, who createdst man in wealth and store,
By just exchange one for the other given.     Though foolishly he lost the same,
I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss:         Decaying more and more,
There never was a bargain better driven.             Till  he  became
His heart in me keeps me and him in one;                 Most poor :
My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides:
He loves my heart, for once it was his own;                 With  thee
I cherish his because in me it bides.             O  let  me  rise
His heart his wound received from my sight;         As larks, harmoniously,
My heart was wounded with his wounded heart;     And sing this day thy victories :
For as from me on him his hurt did light, Then  shall  the  fall  further  the  flight  in  me.
So still, methought, in me his hurt did smart:
Both equal hurt, in this change sought our bliss, My  tender  age  in  sorrow  did  beginne :
My true love hath my heart and I have his.     And still with sicknesses and shame
        Thou didst so punish sinne,
On His Blindness             That  I  became
John Milton
                Most thinne.
When I consider how my light is spent
Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,                 With  thee
To the Virgins      to
    Make
  Let meMuch of Time
combine,
And that one talent which is death to hide,
Robert Herrick        And feel this day thy victorie,
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
My true account, lest He returning chide,
   Old time is still a-flying:
'Doth God exact day labor, light denied?'
And this same flower that smiles to-day
I fondly ask. But Patience to prevent
   To-morrow will be dying. The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,
That murmur soon replies, 'God doth not need
   The higher he's a-getting,
Either man's work or his own gifts. Who best
The sooner will his race be run,
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state
   And nearer he's to setting. That age is best which is the first,
Is kingly: thousands at his bidding speed,
   When youth and blood are warmer;
And post o'er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve who only stand and wait.'
But being spent, the worse, and worst
TO HIS COY MISTRESS
   Times still succeed the former. Then be not coy, but use your time,
mcpapango_englit    And while ye may go marry: 2
For having lost but once your prime
   You may for ever tarry.
Andrew Marvell

Had we but world enough, and time,

This coyness, lady, were no crime.
We would sit down and think which way
To walk, and pass our long love's day;
Thou by the Indian Ganges' side
Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide
Of Humber would complain. I would
Love you ten years before the Flood;
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires, and more slow.
An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast,
But thirty thousand to the rest;
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart. The Constant Lover
For, lady, you deserve this state,  Sir John Suckling
Nor would I love at lower rate.
But at my back I always hear   Out upon it, I have lov'd
Time's winged chariot hurrying near; Three whole days together;
And yonder all before us lie And am like to love three more,
Deserts of vast eternity. If it prove fair weather.
Thy beauty shall no more be found,
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound Time shall molt away his wings
My echoing song; then worms shall try Ere he shall discover
That long preserv'd virginity, In such whole wide world again
And your quaint honour turn to dust, Such a constant lover.
And into ashes all my lust.
The grave's a fine and private place, But the spite on't is, no praise
But none I think do there embrace. Is due at all to me:
Now therefore, while the youthful hue Love with me had made no stays
Sits on thy skin like morning dew, Had it any been but she.
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires, Had it any been but she
Now let us sport us while we may; And that very face,
And now, like am'rous birds of prey, There had been at least ere this
Rather at once our time devour, A dozen dozen in her place.
Than languish in his slow-chapp'd power.
Let us roll all our strength, and all
Our sweetness, up into one ball;
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Thorough the iron gates of life.
She Walks In Beauty
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run. George Lord Byron

She walks in beauty, like the night

To Lucasta, On Going to the Wars Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
Richard Lovelace And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
TELL me not, Sweet, I am unkind, Thus mellowed to that tender light
   That from the nunnery Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind
   To war and arms I fly. One shade the more, one ray the less,
  Had half impaired the nameless grace
True, a new mistress now I chase, Which waves in every raven tress,
   The first foe in the field; Or softly lightens o'er her face;
And with a stronger faith embrace Where thoughts serenely sweet express
   A sword, a horse, a shield. How pure, how dear their dwelling place.
 
Yet this inconstancy is such And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
   As thou too shalt adore;
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
I could not love thee, Dear, so much,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
   Loved I not Honour more.
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!

mcpapango_englit 3
A Poison Tree The Tiger
William Blake William Blake
From Songs of Experience From Songs of Experience

Tiger, tiger, burning bright

I was angry with my friend: In the forests of the night,
I told my wrath, my wrath did end. What immortal hand or eye
I was angry with my foe: Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
I told it not, my wrath did grow.
In what distant deeps or skies
And I watered it in fears Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
Night and morning with my tears, On what wings dare he aspire?
And I sunned it with smiles What the hand dare seize the fire?
And with soft deceitful wiles.
And what shoulder and what art
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And it grew both day and night,
And, when thy heart began to beat,
Till it bore an apple bright,
What dread hand and what dread feet?
And my foe beheld it shine,
And he knew that it was mine, - What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
And into my garden stole What the anvil? what dread grasp
When the night had veiled the pole; Dare its deadly terrors clasp?
In the morning, glad, I see
My foe outstretched beneath the tree. When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
from To see a World… Did He smile His work to see?
William Blake Did He who made the lamb make thee?

To see a World in a Grain of Sand Tiger, tiger, burning bright

And a Heaven in a Wild Flower, In the forests of the night,
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
And Eternity in an hour.

Little Lamb
The Sick Rose
William Blake
Little lamb, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee,
From Songs of Experience Gave thee life, and bid thee feed
By the stream and o'er the mead;
O rose, thou art sick! Gave thee clothing of delight,
The invisible worm, Softest clothing, woolly, bright;
That flies in the night, Gave thee such a tender voice,
In the howling storm, Making all the vales rejoice? 
    Little lamb, who made thee? 
Has found out thy bed     Dost thou know who made thee?
Of crimson joy,
And his dark secret love     Little lamb, I'll tell thee;
Does thy life destroy.     Little lamb, I'll tell thee:
He is called by thy name,
For He calls Himself a Lamb.
He is meek, and He is mild,
He became a little child.
I a child, and thou a lamb,
We are called by His name. 
    Little lamb, God bless thee! 
    Little lamb, God bless thee!

mcpapango_englit 4
"I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud"
How Do I Love Thee?
 William Wordsworth
Elizabeth Barrett Browning
 
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I wandered lonely as a cloud
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
A host, of golden daffodils;
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
I love thee to the level of every day's
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
Continuous as the stars that shine
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
And twinkle on the milky way,
I love with a passion put to use
They stretched in never-ending line
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
Along the margin of a bay:
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
With my lost saints, I love thee with the breath,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
Smiles, tears, of all my life! and, if God choose,
The waves beside them danced; but they
I shall but love thee better after death.
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.

La Belle Dame Sans Merc

John Keats

She found me roots of relish sweet,

Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
    And honey wild, and manna-dew,
    Alone and palely loitering?
And sure in language strange she said -
The sedge has withered from the lake,
    'I love thee true'.
    And no birds sing.

She took me to her elfin grot,

Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
    And there she wept and sighed full sore,
    So haggard and so woe-begone?
And there I shut her wild wild eyes
The squirrel's granary is full,
    With kisses four.
    And the harvest's done.

And there she lulled me asleep

I see a lily on thy brow,
    And there I dreamed - Ah! woe betide! -
    With anguish moist and fever-dew,
The latest dream I ever dreamt
And on thy cheeks a fading rose
    On the cold hill side.
    Fast withereth too.

I saw pale kings and princes too,

I met a lady in the meads,
    Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
    Full beautiful - a faery's child,
They cried - 'La Belle Dame sans Merci
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
    Hath thee in thrall!'
    And her eyes were wild.

I saw their starved lips in the gloam,

I made a garland for her head,
    With horrid warning gaped wide,
    And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
And I awoke and found me here,
She looked at me as she did love,
    On the cold hill's side.
    And made sweet moan.

And this is why I sojourn here

I set her on my pacing steed,
    Alone and palely loitering,
    And nothing else saw all day long,
Though the sedge is withered from the lake,
For sidelong would she bend, and sing
    And no birds sing.
    A faery's song.
 

mcpapango_englit 5
 Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night is a villanelle. A Villanelle is a poetic form which entered English-language
poetry in the 1800s from the imitation of French models.[1] A villanelle has only two rhyme sounds. The first and third
lines of the first stanza are rhyming refrains that alternate as the third line in each successive stanza and form a
couplet at the close. A villanelle is nineteen lines long, consisting of five tercets and one concluding quatrain.

Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night

Dylan Thomas
To a Mouse
Robert Burns
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Small, sleek, cowering, timorous beast,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light. O, what a panic is in your breast!
You need not start away so hasty
Though wise men at their end know dark is right, With hurrying scamper!
Because their words had forked no lightning they I would be loath to run and chase you,
Do not go gentle into that good night. With murdering plough-staff.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, I'm truly sorry man's dominion
Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Has broken Nature's social union,
And justifies that ill opinion
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, Which makes thee startle
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, At me, thy poor, earth born companion
Do not go gentle into that good night. And fellow mortal!

I doubt not, sometimes, but you may steal;

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
What then? Poor beast, you must live!
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light. An odd ear in twenty-four sheaves
Is a small request;
And you, my father, there on the sad height, I will get a blessing with what is left,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray. And never miss it.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Your small house, too, in ruin!
It's feeble walls the winds are scattering!
Robert Burns was a poet, but that was not what And nothing now, to build a new one,
earned him his living. As with most artists of his Of coarse grass green!
time he had to have some means of earning his And bleak December's winds coming,
keep. In Burns' case he earned most of his Both bitter and keen!
money, sparse though this was, from farming.
This is why he is also known as the "Ploughman You saw the fields laid bare and wasted,
Bard". It was while he was ploughing one of his And weary winter coming fast,
fields that he disturbed a mouse's nest. It was his And cozy here, beneath the blast,
thoughts on what he had done that led to his You thought to dwell,
poem, "To A Mouse", which contains one of his Till crash! the cruel plough past
most often quoted lines from the poem. Out through your cell.

That small bit heap of leaves and stubble,

Has cost you many a weary nibble!
Dream Deferred by Langston Hughes Now you are turned out, for all your trouble,
What happens to a dream deferred? Without house or holding,
To endure the winter's sleety dribble,
Does it dry up And hoar-frost cold.
Like a raisin in the sun?
But Mouse, you are not alone,
Or fester like a sore-- In proving foresight may be vain:
And then run? The best laid schemes of mice and men
Go often askew,
Does it stink like rotten meat? And leaves us nothing but grief and pain,
Or crust and sugar over-- For promised joy!
like a syrupy sweet?
Still you are blest, compared with me!
Maybe it just sags The present only touches you:
like a heavy load. But oh! I backward cast my eye,
On prospects dreary!
Or does it explode? And forward, though I cannot see,
I guess and fear!

mcpapango_englit 6
Eleanor Rigby A Book
Lennon/McCartney Emily Dickinson
There is no frigate like a book
Ah, look at all the lonely people To take us lands away,
Ah, look at all the lonely people
Nor any coursers like a page
Of prancing poetry.
Eleanor Rigby, picks up the rice
This traverse may the poorest take
in the church where a wedding has been
Lives in a dream Without oppress of toll;
Waits at the window, wearing the face  How frugal is the chariot
that she keeps in a jar by the door That bears a human soul!
Who is it for
Because I Could Not Stop for Death
All the lonely people Emily Dickinson
Where do they all come from?
All the lonely people Because I could not stop for Death,
Where do they all belong? He kindly stopped for me;
The carriage held but just ourselves
Father McKenzie, writing the words And Immortality.
of a sermon that no one will hear
No one comes near We slowly drove, he knew no haste,
Look at him working, darning his socks And I had put away
in the night when there's nobody there My labor, and my leisure too,
What does he care For his civility.

All the lonely people We passed the school, where children strove
Where do they all come from? At recess, in the ring;
All the lonely people We passed the fields of gazing grain,
Where do they all belong? We passed the setting sun.

Ah, look at all the lonely people Or rather, be passed us;

Ah, look at all the lonely people The dews grew quivering and chill,
For only gossamer my gown,
Eleanor Rigby, died in the church My tippet only tulle.
and was buried along with her name
Nobody came We paused before house that seemed
Father McKenzie, wiping the dirt A swelling of the ground;
from his hands as he walks from the grave The roof was scarcely visible,
No one was saved The cornice but a mound.

All the lonely people Since then 'tis centuries, and yet each
Where do they all come from? Feels shorter than the day
All the lonely people I first surmised the horses' heads
Where do they all belong? Were toward eternity.

Richard Cory  
Edwin Arlington Robinson 

Whenever Richard Cory went downtown,  [whenever, went: alliteration] 

l(a
We people on the pavement looked at him; [pavement: sidewalk] 
He was a gentleman from sole to crown, [crown has a double meaning le
Clean favored, and imperially slim. 
And he was always quietly arrayed
af
And he was always human when he talked;   fa
But still he fluttered pulses when he said, 
“Good-morning,” and he glittered when he walked.
And he was rich–yes, richer than a king– 
ll
And admirably schooled in every grace; 
In fine, we thought that he was everything  s)
To make us wish that we were in his place. 
So on we worked, and waited for the light,   one
And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;  l
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night, 
Went home and put a bullet through his head. 
iness
-ee cummings

mcpapango_englit 7
A Narrow Fellow in the Grass Tonight I Can Write the Saddest Lines
Emily Dickinson Pablo Neruda

A narrow Fellow in the Grass Tonight I can write the saddest lines
Occasionally rides-- Write for example, 'The night is shattered
You may have met Him-- and the blue stars shiver in the distance.'
did you not The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.
His notice sudden is-- Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.
The Grass divides as with a Comb-- Through nights like this one I held her in my arms.
A spotted shaft is seen-- I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.
And then it closes at your feet She loved me, sometimes I loved her too.
And opens further on-- How could one not have loved her great still eyes.
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
He likes a Boggy Acre To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.
A Floor too cool for Corn-- To hear immense night, still more immense without her.
Yet when a Boy, and Barefoot-- And the verse falls to the soul like dew to a pasture.
I more than once at Noon What does it matter that my love could not keep her.
The night is shattered and she is not with me.
Have passed, I thought, a Whip lash This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance.
Unbraiding in the Sun My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.
When stooping to secure it My sight searches for her as though to go to her.
It wrinkled, and was gone-- My heart looks for her, and she is not with me.
The same night whitening the same trees.
Several of Nature's People We, of that time, are no longer the same.
I know, and they know me-- I no longer love her, that's certain, but how I loved her.
I feel for them a transport My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.
Of cordiality-- Another's. She will be another's. Like my kisses before.
Her voice. Her bright body. Her infinite eyes.
But never met this Fellow I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her.
Attended, or alone Love is short, forgetting is so long.
Without a tighter breathing Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms
And Zero at the Bone--* my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.
Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer
and these the last verses that I write for her.

- from Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair

The Road Not Taken

Robert Frost Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening
Robert Frost
TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both Whose woods these are I think I know.
And be one traveler, long I stood His house is in the village though;
And looked down one as far as I could He will not see me stopping here
To where it bent in the undergrowth; To watch his woods fill up with snow.
   My little horse must think it queer
Then took the other, as just as fair, To stop without a farmhouse near
And having perhaps the better claim Between the woods and frozen lake
Because it was grassy and wanted wear; The darkest evening of the year.
Though as for that, the passing there He gives his harness bells a shake
Had worn them really about the same, To ask if there is some mistake.
   The only other sound's the sweep
And both that morning equally lay Of easy wind and downy flake.
In leaves no step had trodden black. The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
Oh, I marked the first for another day! But I have promises to keep,
Yet knowing how way leads on to way And miles to go before I sleep,
I doubted if I should ever come back. And miles to go before I sleep.
  
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.

mcpapango_englit 8
"Hope" is the thing with feathers
 Emily Dickinson

"Hope" is the thing with feathers—

That 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 storm—
That could abash the little Bird
That 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.

When I Heard the Learned Astronomer  

Walt Whitman

When I heard the learn'd astronomer,

When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before me,
When I was shown the charts and diagrams, to add, divide,
and measure them,
When I sitting heard the astronomer where he lectured with
much applause in the lecture-room,
How soon unaccountable I became tired and sick,
Till rising and gliding out I wander'd off by myself,
In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time,
Look'd up in perfect silence at the stars.

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!

I Shall Not Live in Vain

Emily Dickinson

If I can stop one heart from breaking,

I shall not live in vain;
If I can ease one life the aching,
Or cool one pain,
Or help one fainting robin
Unto his nest again,
I shall not live in vain.

mcpapango_englit 9