Two Tramps In Mud Time, by Robert Frost

Transcription

1 My object in living is to unite My avocation and my vocation As my two eyes make one in sight. Only where love and need are one, And the work is play for mortal stakes, Is the deed ever really done For Heaven and the future's sakes. Two Tramps In Mud Time, by Robert Frost

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3 The Road Not Taken If Robert Frost Rudyard Kipling ( ) 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. If you can keep your head when all about you Are 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 disaster And treat those two impostors just the same; If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken Twisted 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 winnings And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, And lose, and start again at your beginnings And never breathe a word about your loss; If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew To serve your turn long after they are gone, And so hold on when there is nothing in you Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!" If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, Sonnet XVIII: Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch; Shall I Compare Thee to a Summer's Day? If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you; William Shakespeare ( ) If all men count with you, but none too much; If you can fill the unforgiving minute Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? With sixty seconds' worth of distance run - Thou art more lovely and more temperate Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it, Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son 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 ow'st; 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

4 Sonnets from the Portuguese #43: Sonnets from the Portuguese #16: How Do I Love Thee? If Thou Must Love Me Elizabeth Barrett Browning ( ) If thou must love me, let it be for naught How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. Except for love's sake only. Do not say, I love thee to the depth and breadth and height I love her for her smile -- her look -- her way My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight Of speaking gently -- for a trick of thought For the ends of Being and ideal Grace. That falls in well with mine, and certes brought I love thee to the level of everyday's A sense of pleasant ease on such a day" --- Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight. For these things in themselves, Beloved, may I love thee freely, as men strive for Right; Be changed, or change for thee -- and love, so wrought I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise. May be unwrought so. Neither love me for I love thee with the passion put to use Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheeks dry -- In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith. A creature might forget to weep, who bore I love thee with a love I seemed to lose Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby! With my lost saints -- I love thee with the breath, But love me for love's sake, that evermore Smiles, tears, of all my life! -- and, if God choose, Thou may'st love on, through love's eternity I shall but love thee better after death. Trees, (For Mrs. Henry Mills Alden) Joyce Kilmer ( ) I think that I shall never see A poem as lovely as a tree. A tree whose hungry mouth is prest Against the earth's sweet flowing breast; A tree that looks at God all day, And lifts her leafy arms to pray; A tree that may in Summer wear A nest of robins in her hair; Upon whose bosom snow has lain; Who intimately lives with rain. Poems are made by fools like me, But only God can make a tree.

5 Annabell Lee The angels, not half so happy in heaven, Edgar Allen Poe Went envying her and me. Yes, that was the reason-as all men know, It was many and many a year ago, In this kingdom by the sea- In a kingdom by the sea, That the wind came out of the cloud by night, That a maiden there lived whom you may know Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. By the name of Annabel Lee, And this maiden she lived with no other thought But our love it was stronger far than the love Than to love and be loved by me. Of those that were older than we, Of many far wiser than we. I was a child and she was a child, And neither the angels in heaven above, In this kingdom by the sea; Nor the demons down under the sea, But we loved with a love that was more than love, Can ever dissever my soul from the soul I and my Annabel Lee; Of the beautiful Annabel Lee: With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven Coveted her and me. For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And this was the reason that, long ago, And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes In this kingdom by the sea, Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side My beautiful Annabel Lee; Of my darling, my darling, my life, and my bride, So that her high-born kinsman came In the sepulcher there by the sea, And bore her away from me, In her tomb by the sounding sea To shut her up in a sepulcher In this kingdom by the sea. 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 borrow From my books surcease of sorrow,-sorrow for the lost Lenore,- For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore,- Nameless here forevermore. And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled 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; That 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.

6 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 "Lenorel! 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, something 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 then 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 an instant 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 being Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door, Bird or beast upon the sculptared 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 disaster Followed fast and followed faster, till his song one burden bore, Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore,- Of 'Nevermore,-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 linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore- What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore- Meant in croaking "Nevermore!"

7 This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er, But whose velvet violet lining, with the lamplight gloating o'er, She shall press-ah! nevermore! Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer, Swung by seraphim, whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor. "Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee,-by these angels he hath sent thee Respite,-respite and nepenthe from the memories of Lenore! Quaff, 0, 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 name Lenore, Clasp a fair and radiant maiden, whom the angels name 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 sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon that is dreaming, And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted-nevermore!

8 Emily Dickinson ( ) "Hope" is the thing with feathers "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. Chartless Charity I never saw a moor I never saw the sea Yet know I how the heather looks And what a wave must be I never spoke with God Nor visited in heaven Yet certain am I of the spot As if the chart were given 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. 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. Funeral Blues W. H. Auden Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone, Silence the pianos and with muffled drum Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come. Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead. Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves, Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves. He was my North, my South, my East and West, My working week and my Sunday rest, My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong. The stars are not wanted now; put out every one, Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun, Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods; For nothing now can ever come to any good.

9 My Heart Leaps Up William Wordsworth Pied Beauty Gerard Manley Hopkins My heart leaps up when I behold Glory be to God for dappled things - A rainbow in the sky: For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow; So was it when my life began; For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim; So is it now I am a man; Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches' wings; So be it when I shall grow old, Landscape plotted and pieced - fold, fallow, and plough; Or let me die! And 'll tr'des, their gear and tackle and trim. The Child is father of the Man; All things counter, original, spare, strange; And I could wish my days to be Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?) Bound each to each by natural piety. With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim; He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change: Praise him Song from Pippa Passes Robert Browning The year's at the spring Sonnet 18 And day's at the morn; William Wordsworth Morning's at seven; The hill-side's dew-pearled; The world is too much with us; late and soon, The lark's on the wing; Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: The snail's on the thorn: Little we see in nature that is ours; God's in his heaven -- We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! All's right with the world! This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon; The Winds that will be howling at all hours I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers; William Wordsworth For this, for every thing, we are out of tune; It moves us not Great God! I'd rather be I wandered lonely as a cloud A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn; That floats on high o'er vales and hills, So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, When all at once I saw a crowd, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn A host, of golden daffodils; Have sight of Proteus coming from the sea, Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. 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. Delight In Disorder Robert Herrick. A sweet disorder in the dress Kindles in clothes a wantonness: A lawn about the shoulders thrown Into a fine distraction: An erring lace, which here and there Enthralls the crimson stomacher: A cuff neglectful, and thereby Ribbands to flow confusedly: A winning wave (deserving note) In the tempestuous petticoat: A careless shoe-string, in whose tie I see a wild civility: Do more bewitch me, than when art Is too precise in every part.

10 The Creation The purple-headed mountain, Cecil Francis Alexander The river running by, The sunset and the morning, All things bright and beautiful, That brightens up the sky; All creatures, great and small, All things wise and wonderful, The cold wind in the winter, The Lord God made them all. The pleasant summer sun, The ripe fruits in the garden - Each little flower that opens, He made them every one. Each little bird that sings He made their glowing colors, The tall trees in the greenwood, He made their tiny wings; The meadows where we play, Rushes by the water The rich man in his castle, We gather every day, - The poor man at his gate, God made them, high or lowly, He gave us eyes to see them, And ordered their estate. And lips that we might tell How great is God Almighty, Who has make all things wel Endymion, A Poetic Romance (excerpt) John Keats ( ) Therefore, 'tis with full happiness that I Will trace the story of Endymion. The very music of the name has gone A thing of beauty is a joy for ever: Into my being, and each pleasant scene Its loveliness increases; it will never Is growing fresh before me as the green Pass into nothingness; but still will keep Of our own valleys: so I will begin A bower quiet for us, and a sleep Now while I cannot hear the city's din; Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing. Now while the early budders are just new, Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing And run in mazes of the youngest hue A flowery band to bind us to the earth, About old forests; while the willow trails Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth Its delicate amber; and the dairy pails Of noble natures, of the gloomy days, Bring home increase of milk. And, as the year Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways Grows lush in juicy stalks, I'll smoothly steer Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all, My little boat, for many quiet hours, Some shape of beauty moves away the pall With streams that deepen freshly into bowers. From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon, Many and many a verse I hope to write, Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon Before the daisies, vermeil rimm'd and white, For simple sheep; and such are daffodils Hide in deep herbage; and ere yet the bees With the green world they live in; and clear rills Hum about globes of clover and sweet peas, That for themselves a cooling covert make I must be near the middle of my story. 'Gainst the hot season; the mid forest brake, O may no wintry season, bare and hoary, Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms: See it half finish'd: but let Autumn bold, And such too is the grandeur of the dooms With universal tinge of sober gold, We have imagined for the mighty dead; Be all about me when I make an end. All lovely tales that we have heard or read: And now, at once adventuresome, I send An endless fountain of immortal drink, My herald thought into a wilderness: Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink. There let its trumpet blow, and quickly dress Nor do we merely feel these essences My uncertain path with green, that I may speed For one short hour; no, even as the trees Easily onward, thorough flowers and weed. That whisper round a temple become soon Dear as the temple's self, so does the moon, The passion poesy, glories infinite, Notes -- The poem tells of the love of Endymion, Haunt us till they become a cheering light a Greek youth, for the goddess Cynthia. Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast, That, whether there be shine, or gloom o'ercast; They always must be with us, or we die.

11 The Man Watching Rainer Maria Rilke I can tell by the way the trees beat, after so many dull days, on my worried windowpanes that a storm is coming, and I hear the far-off fields say things I can't bear without a friend, I can't love without a sister. The storm, the shifter of shapes, drives on across the woods and across time, and the world looks as if it had no age: the landscape like a line in the psalm book, is seriousness and weight and eternity. What we choose to fight is so tiny! What fights us is so great! If only we would let ourselves be dominated as things do by some immense storm, we would become strong too, and not need names. When we win it's with small things, and the triumph itself makes us small. What is extraordinary and eternal does not want to be bent by us. I mean the Angel who appeared to the wrestlers of the Old Testament: when the wrestler's sinews grew long like metal strings, he felt them under his fingers like chords of deep music. Whoever was beaten by this Angel (who often simply declined the fight) went away proud and strengthened and great from that harsh hand, that kneaded him as if to change his shape. Winning does not tempt that man. This is how he grows: by being defeated, decisively, by constantly greater beings. Archaic Torso of Apollo Rainer Maria Rilke We never knew his fantastic head, where eyes like apples ripened. Yet his torso, like a lamp, still glows with his gaze which, although turned down low, lingers and shines. Else the prow of his breast couldn't dazzle you, nor in the slight twist of his loins could a smile run free through that center which held fertility. Else this stone would stand defaced and squat under the shoulders' diaphanous dive and not glisten like a predator's coat; and not from every edge explode like starlight: for there's not one spot that doesn't see you. You must change your life. As Once the Winged Energy of Delight Rainer Maria Rilke As once the winged energy of delight carried you over childhood's dark abysses, now beyond your own life build the great arch of unimagined bridges. Wonders happen if we can succeed in passing through the harshest danger; but only in a bright and purely granted achievement can we realize the wonder. To work with Things in the indescribable relationship is not too hard for us; the pattern grows more intricate and subtle, and being swept along is not enough. Take your practiced powers and stretch them out until they span the chasm between two contradictions...for the god wants to know himself in you. Snow Vladimir Holan It began to snow at midnight. And certainly the kitchen is the best place to sit, even the kitchen of the sleepless. It's warm there, you cook yourself something, drink wine and look out of the window at your friend eternity. Why care whether birth and death are merely points when life is not a straight line. Why torment yourself eyeing the calendar and wondering what is at stake. Why confess you don't have the money to buy Saskia shoes? And why brag that you suffer more than others. If there were no silence here the snow would have dreamt it up. You are alone. Spare the gestures. Nothing for show.

12 To a Skylark Percy Blythe Shelley ( ) Hail to thee, blithe Spirit! Bird thou never wert, That from Heaven, or near it, Pourest thy full heart In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. Higher still and higher From the earth thou springest Like a cloud of fire; The blue deep thou wingest, And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. In the golden lightning Of the sunken sun, O'er which clouds are bright'ning, Thou dost float and run; Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun. The pale purple even Melts around thy flight; Like a star of Heaven, In the broad day-light Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight, Keen as are the arrows Of that silver sphere, Whose intense lamp narrows In the white dawn clear Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there. All the earth and air With thy voice is loud, As, when night is bare, From one lonely cloud The moon rains out her beams, What thou art we know not; What is most like thee? From rainbow clouds there flow not Drops so bright to see As from thy presence showers a rain of melody. Like a Poet hidden In the light of thought, Singing hymns unbidden, Till the world is wrought To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not: Like a high-born maiden In a palace-tower, Soothing her love-laden Soul in secret hour With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower: Like a glow-worm golden In a dell of dew, Scattering unbeholden Its a real hue Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view: Like a rose embower'd In its own green leaves, By warm winds deflower'd, Till the scent it gives Makes faint with too much sweet those heavy-winged thieves: Sound of vernal showers On the twinkling grass, Rain-awaken'd flowers, All that ever was Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass. Teach us, Sprite or Bird, What sweet thoughts are thine: I have never heard Praise of love or wine That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. Chorus Hymeneal, Or triumphal chant, Match'd with thine would be all But an empty vaunt, A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want. What objects are the fountains Of thy happy strain? What fields, or waves, or mountains? What shapes of sky or plain? What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain? and Heaven is overflow'd. With thy clear keen joyance Languor cannot be: Shadow of annoyance Never came near thee: Thou lovest: but ne'er knew love's sad satiety. Waking or asleep, Thou of death must deem Things more true and deep Than we mortals dream, Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream? We look before and after, And pine for what is not: Our sincerest laughter With some pain is fraught; Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.

13 Yet if we could scorn Tis the Last Rose of Summer Hate, and pride, and fear; Thomas Moore ( ) If we were things born Not to shed a tear, 'Tis the last rose of Summer, I know not how thy joy we ever should come near. Left blooming alone; All her lovely companions Better than all measures Are faded and gone; Of delightful sound, No flower of her kindred, Better than all treasures No rosebud is nigh, That in books are found, To reflect back her blushes, Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground! Or give sigh for sigh! Teach me half the gladness That thy brain must know, Such harmonious madness From my lips would flow The world should listen then, as I am listening now. Auguries Of Innocence William Blake ( ) I'll not leave thee, thou lone one, To pine on the stem; Since the lovely are sleeping, Go sleep thou with them. Thus kindly I scatter Thy leaves o'er the bed Where thy mates of the garden Lie scentless and dead. So soon may I follow, When friendships decay, And from Love's shining circle The gems drop away! When true hearts lie withered, And fond ones are flown, Oh! who would inhabit This bleak world alone? To see a world in a grain of sand And a heaven in a wild flower, Hold infinity in the palm of your hand And eternity in an hour. Kill not the moth nor butterfly, For the Last Judgment draweth nigh. He who shall train the horse to war Shall never pass the polar bar. A robin redbreast in a cage The beggar's dog and widow's cat, Puts all heaven in a rage. Feed them, and thou wilt grow fat. A dove-house filled with doves and pigeons The gnat that sings his summer's song. Shudders hell through all its regions. Poison gets from Slander's tongue A dog starved at his master's gate The poison of the snake and newt Is the sweat of Envy's foot. Predicts the ruin of the state. The poison of the honey-bee Is the artist's jealousy. A horse misused upon the road Calls to heaven for human blood. The prince's robes and beggar's rags Each outcry of the hunted hare Are toadstools on the miser's bags. A fibre from the brain does tear. A truth that's told with bad intent A skylark wounded in the wing, Beats all the lies you can invent A cherubim does cease to sing. The game-cock clipped and armed for fight It is right it should be so: Does the rising sun affright. Man was made for joy and woe; Every wolf's and lion's howl And when this we rightly know Raises from hell a human soul. Through the world we safely go. The wild deer wandering here and there Joy and woe are woven fine,. Keeps the human soul from care. A clothing for the soul divine. The lamb misused breeds public strife, Under every grief and pine And yet forgives the butcher's knife. Runs a joy with silken twine. The bat that flits at close of eve The babe is more than swaddling bands Has left the brain that won't believe. Throughout all these human lands; The owl that calls upon the night Tools were made and born were hands, Speaks the unbeliever's fright. Every farmer understands.

14 He who shall hurt the little wren Shall never be beloved by men. He who the ox to wrath has moved Shall never be by woman loved. The wanton boy that kills the fly Shall feel the spider's enmity. He who torments the chafer's sprite Weaves a bower in endless night. The caterpillar on the leaf Repeats to thee thy mother's grief. The beggar's rags fluttering in air Does to rags the heavens tear. The soldier armed with sword and gun Palsied strikes the summer's sun. The poor man's farthing is worth more Than all the gold on Afric's shore. One mite wrung from the labourer's hands Shall buy and sell the miser's lands, Or if protected from on high Does that whole nation sell and buy. Every tear from every eye Becomes a babe in eternity; This is caught by females bright And returned to its own delight. The bleat, the bark, bellow, and roar Are waves that beat on heaven's shore. The babe that weeps the rod beneath Writes Revenge! in realms of death. A riddle or the cricket's cry Is to doubt a fit reply. The emmet's inch and eagle's mile Make lame philosophy to smile. He who doubts from what he sees Will ne'er believe, do what you please. If the sun and moon should doubt, They'd immediately go out. To be in a passion you good may do, But no good if a passion is in you. He who mocks the infant's faith ` The whore & gambler by the state Shall be mocked in age and death. Licensed, build that nation's fate. He who shall teach the child to doubt The harlot's cry from street to street The rotting grave shall ne'er get out. Shall weave old England's winding sheet. He who respects the infant's faith The winner's shout, the loser's curse Triumphs over hell and death. Dance before dead England'shearse The child's toys and the old man's reasons Are the fruits of the two seasons. Every night and every morn The questioner who sits so sly Some to misery are born. Shall never know how to reply. Every morn and every night He who replies to words of doubt Some are born to sweet delight. Doth put the light of knowledge out. Some are born to sweet delight, The strongest poison ever known Some are born to endless night. Came from Caesar's laurel crown. We are led to believe a lie Nought can deform the human race When we see not through the eye Like to the armour's iron brace. Which was born in a night... When gold and gems adorn the plough... to perish in a night. To peaceful arts shall Envy bow. When the soul slept in beams of light. God appears, and God is light To those poor souls who dwell in night, But does a human form display To those who dwell in realms of day.

15 The Chambered Nautilus Oliver Wendell Holmes ( ) This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, Sails the unshadowed main,- The venturous bark that flings On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings In gulfs enchanted, where the siren sings, And coral reefs lie bare, Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair. Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl; Wrecked is the ship of pearl! And every chambered cell, Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell, As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell, Before thee lies revealed,- Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed! Leave thy low-vaulted past! Let each new temple, nobler than the last, Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast, Till thou at length art free, Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea! Year after year beheld the silent toil That spread his lustrous coil; Still, as the spiral grew, He left the past year's dwelling for the new, Stole with soft step its shining archway through, Built up its idle door, Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more. Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, Child of the wandering sea, Cast from her lap, forlorn! From thy dead lips a clearer note is born Than ever Triton blew from wreathèd horn! While on mine ear it rings, Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:- Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul, As the swift seasons roll! "Sea Fever" John Masefield ( ). (English Poet Laureate, ) I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky, And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by, And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking, And a grey mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn breaking. I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied; And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying, And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying. I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life, To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife; And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over. Requiem Robert Louis Stevenson Under the wide and starry sky, Dig the grave and let me lie. Glad did I live and gladly die, And I laid me down with a will. This be the verse you grave for me: Here he lies where he longed to be; Home is the sailor, home from the sea And the hunter home from the hill.

16 I II III IV V VI VII Among twenty snowy mountains, The only moving thing Was the eye of the black bird. I was of three minds, Like a tree In which there are three blackbirds. The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds. It was a small part of the pantomime. A man and a woman Are one. A man and a woman and a blackbird Are one. I do not know which to prefer, The beauty of inflections Or the beauty of innuendoes, The blackbird whistling Or just after. Icicles filled the long window With barbaric glass. The shadow of the blackbird Crossed it, to and fro. The mood Traced in the shadow An indecipherable cause. O thin men of Haddam, Why do you imagine golden birds? Do you not see how the blackbird Walks around the feet Of the women about you? Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird Wallace Stevens ( ) VIII IX X XI XII XIII I know noble accents And lucid, inescapable rhythms; But I know, too, That the blackbird is involved In what I know. When the blackbird flew out of sight, It marked the edge Of one of many circles. At the sight of blackbirds Flying in a green light, Even the bawds of euphony Would cry out sharply. He rode over Connecticut In a glass coach. Once, a fear pierced him, In that he mistook The shadow of his equipage For blackbirds. The river is moving. The blackbird must be flying. It was evening all afternoon. It was snowing And it was going to snow. The blackbird sat In the cedar-limbs. Chief Seattle's Response Every part of this Earth is sacred to my people; Every shining pine needle, every sandy shore. Every mist in the dark wood, Every clearing and every humming insect is holy in the memory of my people. The sap which courses through the trees carries the memories of my people. The perfumed flowers are our sisters. We are part of the Earth, and the Earth is part of us. The deer, the horse, the great eagle are our brothers. We all belong to the same family. If we sell you our land, you mst remember that it is sacred. The shining water that moves in the streams and rivers is not only water, but the blood of our people. If we sell you our land, you must remember and teach your children to give the rivers the kindness that you would give your brother. The red man has always retreated before the advancing white man as the mist of the mountains runs before the morning sun.

17 The white man does not understand our ways. He treats his Mother, the Earth, as a thing to be bought and sold. He will devour the Earth and leave behind only a desert. Where is the thicket? Gone. Where is the eagle? Gone. Goodbye to the swift pony and the hunt. The end of living and the beginning of survival. For some special purpose God had given you dominion over this land. That destiny is a mystery to us. The Earth is precious to God. To harm the Earth is to harm its Creator. If we sell our land, you must keep it sacred; A place to taste the wind that is sweetened by the meadow flowers. All things are connected. What is there to life if a man cannot hear the lovely cry of the whipporwill? What is there to life without the beasts? And what is man without the beasts? If the beasts were gone, man would die from a great loneliness of spirit. All things are connected. If we sell you our land, teach your children the the Earth is our Mother. Every part of this Earth is sacred to my people. This we know: The Earth does not belong to Man. Man belongs to the Earth. All things are connected, like the blood which unites one family. We do not weave the web of life. We are but a strand in the web of life. What we do to the web we do to ourselves. All things are connected. Every part of this Earth is sacred to my people. The red man loves the Earth like a newborn loves its mother's heartbeat. If we sell you our land, love the land as we have loved it. Care for the land as we have cared. Hold in your mind the memory of the land as it was when you take it. And with all your strength, with all your mind, with all your heart, Preserve it for your children. And love it, as God loves us all. One thing we know: our God is the same God. We may be brothers after all. We shall see This speech was given by Chief Seattle in response to the demand of the U.S. government to sell his tribe's land. It was originally delivered in his native Salish to over 1000 of his people who were gathered to meet the U.S. Indian Superintendent, Issac Stevens i n This rendition uses about 25% of the available transcription; in editing, passages were deleted which are believed to have been added by others. I feel this rendition is faithful to the tone and intent of the original speech and is my favorite rendition. It was compiled by Robert Gass. Although the authenticity of the following text might be questioned, I find it the most powerful statement on ecology and interconnectedness that I have ever read. School of Spiritual Integrity Rev. Kythera Ann kythera@angelic.com 1996/

18 The Tyger William Blake ( ) 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 seize the fire? And what shoulder, and what art, Could twist the sinews of thy heart, And when thy heart began to beat, What dread hand? and 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? When I Heard the Learn'd 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. Those Image W. B. Yeats What if I bade you leave The cavern of your mind? There s better exercise In the sunlight and the wind. I never bade you go To Moscow or to Rome. Renounce that drudgery, Call the Muses home. Seek those images That constitute the wild, The lion and the virgin, The harlot and the child. Find in middle air An eagle on the wing, Recognize the five That make the Muses sing. Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam (excerpt) Myself when young did eagerly frequent Doctor and Saint, and heard great argument About it and about: but evermore Came out by the same Door where in I went

19 Dover Beach Matthew Arnold The sea is calm to-night. The Sea of Faith The tide is full, the moon lies fair Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore Upon the straits;--on the French coast the light Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furl'd. Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand, But now I only hear Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay. Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar, Come to the window, sweet is the night-air! Retreating, to the breath Only, from the long line of spray Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear Where the sea meets the moon-blanch'd land, And naked shingles of the world. Listen! you hear the grating roar Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling, Ah, love, let us be true At their return, up the high strand, To one another! for the world, which seems Begin, and cease, and then again begin, To lie before us like a land of dreams, With tremulous cadence slow, and bring So various, so beautiful, so new, The eternal note of sadness in. Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain; Sophocles long ago And we are here as on a darkling plain Heard it on the Aegean, and it brought Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight, Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow Where ignorant armies clash by night. Of human misery; we Find also in the sound a thought, Hearing it by this distant northern sea. The Tables Turned William Wordsworth Books! tis a dull and endless strife: Come, hear the woodland linnet, One impulse from a vernal wood How sweet his music on my life, May teach you more of man, There's more of wisdom in it Of moral evil and of good, And hark! how blithe the throstle sing! Than all the sages can. He too is no mean preacher: Sweet is the lore which Nature brings; Come forth into the light of things, Our meddling intellect Let Nature be your teacher. Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things:-- We murder to dissect. She has a world of ready wealth, Our minds and hearts to bless Enough of Science and of Art; Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health, Truth breathed by cheerfulness. Euclid Alone Has Looked on Beauty Bare Edna St. Vincent Millay Euclid alone has looked on Beauty bare. Let all who prate of Beauty hold their peace, And lay them prone upon the earth and cease To ponder on themselves, the while they stare At nothing, intricately drawn nowhere n shapes of shifting lineage; let geese Gabble and hiss, but heroes seek release From dusty bondage into luminous air. O blinding hour, O holy, terrible day, When first the shaft into his vision shone Of light anatomized! Euclid alone Has looked on Beauty bare. Fortunate they Who, though once only and then but far away, Have heard her massive sandal set on stone Close up those barren leaves; Come forth and bring with you heart That watches and receives.

20 When I Was One-and-Twenty A.E. Housman When I was one-and-twenty When I was one-and-twenty I heard a wise man say, I heard him say again, "Give crowns and pounds and guineas The heart out of the bosom But not your heart away; Was never given in vain; Give pearls away and rubies 'Tis paid with sighs a plenty But keep your fancy free." And sold for endless rue." But I was one-and-twenty, And I am two-and-twenty, No use to talk to me. And oh, 'tis true, 'tis true. A Red, Red Rose Robert Browning O my Luve's like a red, red rose That's newly sprung in June: O my Luve's like the melodie That's sweetly play'd 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: Love (III) George Herbert ( ) Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, And the rocks melt wi' the sun; I will have thee still, my dear, While the sands o' life shall run. And fare thee weel, my only Luve, And fare thee weel a while; And I will come again, my Luve, Tho' it were ten thousand mile. A Drinking Song William Butler Yeats Love bade me welcome, yet my soul drew back, Wine comes in at the mouth Guilty of dust and sin. And love comes in at the eye; But quick-ey'd Love, observing me grow slack That's all we shall know for truth From my first entrance in, Before we grow old and die. Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning I lift the glass to my mouth, If I lack'd anything. I look at you, and I sigh. "A guest," I answer'd, "worthy to be here"; Love said, "You shall be he." XXVI. Along the field as we came by "I, the unkind, the ungrateful? ah my dear, from A Shropshire Lad (1896) I cannot look on thee." A. E. Housman ( ). Love took my hand and smiling did reply, "Who made the eyes but I?" Along the field as we came by "Truth, Lord, but I have marr'd them; let my shame A year ago, my love and I, Go where it doth deserve." The aspen over stile and stone "And know you not," says Love, "who bore the blame?" Was talking to itself alone. "My dear, then I will serve." Oh who are these that kiss and pass? "You must sit down," says Love, "and taste my meat." A country lover and his lass; So I did sit and eat. Two lovers looking to be wed; And time shall put them both to bed, Bargain But she shall lie with earth above, Sir Philip Sidney And he beside another love. My true love hath my heart, and I have his, By just exchange one for another given: I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss, There never was a better bargain driven: My true love hath my heart, and I have his. His heart in me keeps him and me in one, My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides: He loves my heart, for once it was his own, I cherish his because in me it bides: My true love hath my heart, and I have his. And sure enough beneath the tree There walks another love with me, And overhead the aspen heaves Its rainy-sounding silver leaves; And I spell nothing in their stir, But now perhaps they speak to her, And plain for her to understand They talk about a time at hand When I shall sleep with clover clad, And she beside another lad.

21 Sonnet CXVI: Let Me Not To The Marriage Of True Minds William Shakespeare Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments. Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove. O no, it is an ever-fixèd mark That looks on tempests and is never shaken; It is the star to every wand'ring bark, Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come; Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom. If this be error and upon me proved, I never writ, nor no man ever loved. Sonnet XXIX: When In Disgrace With Fortune And Men's Eyes William Shakespeare When, in disgrace with Fortune and men's eyes, I all alone beweep my outcast state, And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries, And look upon myself and curse my fate, Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, Featured like him, like him with friends possessed, Desiring this man's art and that man's scope, With what I most enjoy contented least; Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising, Haply I think on thee, and then my state, Like to the lark at break of day arising From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate; For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings That then I scorn to change my state with kings. Sonnet CXXXVIII: When My Love Swears That She Is Made Of Truth William Shakespeare When my love swears that she is made of truth I do believe her, though I know she lies, That she might think me some untutored youth, Unlearnèd in the world's false subtleties. Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young, Although she knows my days are past the best, Simply I credit her false-speaking tongue; On both sides thus is simple truth suppressed. But wherefore says she not she is unjust? And wherefore say not I that I am old? O, love's best habit is in seeming trust, And age in love, loves not to have years told. Therefore I lie with her, and she with me, And in our faults by lies we flattered be.