Variations on the Word Love - Margaret Atwood

This is a word we use to plug
holes with. It’s the right size for those warm
blanks in speech, for those red heart-
shaped vacancies on the page that look nothing
like real hearts. Add lace
and you can sell
it. We insert it also in the one empty
space on the printed form
that comes with no instructions. There are whole
magazines with not much in them
but the word love, you can
rub it all over your body and you
can cook with it too. How do we know
it isn’t what goes on at the cool
debaucheries of slugs under damp
pieces of cardboard? As for the weed-
seedlings nosing their tough snouts up
among the lettuces, they shout it.
Love! Love! sing the soldiers, raising
their glittering knives in salute.

Then there’s the two
of us. This word
is far too short for us, it has only
four letters, too sparse
to fill those deep bare
vacuums between the stars
that press on us with their deafness.
It’s not love we don’t wish
to fall into, but that fear.
this word is not enough but it will
have to do. It’s a single
vowel in this metallic
silence, a mouth that says
O again and again in wonder
and pain, a breath, a finger
grip on a cliffside. You can
hold on or let go.

The Planners - Boey Kim Cheng

They plan. They build. All spaces are gridded,
filled with permutations of possibilities.
The buildings are in alignment with the roads
which meet at desired points
linked by bridges all hang
in the grace of mathematics.
They build and will not stop.
Even the sea draws back
and the skies surrender.

They erase the flaws,
the blemishes of the past, knock off
useless blocks with dental dexterity.
All gaps are plugged
with gleaming gold.
The country wears perfect rows
of shining teeth.
Anaesthesia, amnesia, hypnosis.
They have the means.
They have it all so it will not hurt,
so history is new again.
The piling will not stop.
The drilling goes right through
the fossils of last century.

But my heart would not bleed
poetry. Not a single drop
to stain the blueprint
of our past's tomorrow.

The Mouse's Tale - Lewis Carroll (from The Adventures of Alice in Wonderland)

Broken Heart - Cheryl W.

r-p-o-p-h-e-s-s-a-g-r - e.e. cummings

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 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 everyday'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 a 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.

Love's Coming - Shaw Neilson

QUIETLY as rosebuds
Talk to thin air,
Love came so lightly
I knew not he was there.

Quietly as lovers
Creep at the middle noon,
Softly as players tremble
In the tears of a tune;

Quietly as lilies
Their faint vows declare,
Came the shy pilgrim:
I knew not he was there.

Quietly as tears fall
On a warm sin,
Softly as griefs call
In a violin;

Without hail or tempest,
Blue sword or flame,
Love came so lightly
I knew not that he came.

A Birthday - Christina Rossetti

My heart is like a singing bird
Whose nest is in a watered shoot;
My heart is like an apple-tree
Whose boughs are bent with thickset fruit;
My heart is like a rainbow shell
That paddles in a halcyon sea;
My heart is gladder than all these
Because my love is come to me.

Raise me a dais of silk and down;
Hang it with vair and purple dyes;
Carve it in doves and pomegranates,
And peacocks with a hundred eyes;
Work it in gold and silver grapes,
In leaves and silver fleurs-de-lys;
Because the birthday of my life
Is come, my love is come to me.

Side - Angela Rose

I never thought we’d disagree
on anatomy or chemistry.
That was until you made the mistake
of choosing that cold, sparkly fake.

How could you join the vampire side?
When werewolves are best, it can’t be denied!
Team Edward or Team Jacob you had to select.
But you chose wrong and now our friendship’s wrecked.

Until you are ready to rescind your poor choice,
I will not abide the grating sound of your voice.
I miss you dear friend, of that I won’t lie.
But I’ve chosen Team Jacob, so this is goodbye.

Introduction to Poetry - Billy Collins

I ask them to take a poem   
and hold it up to the light   
like a color slide
or press an ear against its hive.
I say drop a mouse into a poem   
and watch him probe his way out,
or walk inside the poem’s room   
and feel the walls for a light switch.
I want them to waterski   
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author’s name on the shore.
But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope   
and torture a confession out of it.
They begin beating it with a hose   
to find out what it really means.

The Young Ones - Elizabeth Jennings

They slip on to the bus, hair piled up high.
New styles each month, it seems to me. I look,
Not wanting to be seen, casting my eye
Above the unread pages of a book.

They are fifteen or so. When I was thus,
I huddled in school coats, my satchel hung
Lop-sided on my shoulder. Without fuss
These enter adolescence; being young

Seems good to them, a state we cannot reach,
No talk of 'awkward ages' now. I see
How childish gazes staring out of each
Unfinished face prove me incredibly

Old-fashioned. Yet at least I have the chance
To size up several stages - young, yet old,
Doing the twist, mocking an 'old-time' dance:
So many ways to be unsure or bold.


posted by SHALINE (potato)

A New Person Every Day

A New Person Every Day

I made a picture composed of six clocks,
installed it above my bed with the help of a friend.
This friend and I, we're not speaking anymore
but his effort continues to hold up the timepieces,
representing six zones. I've confiscated their batteries.
Connections keep miscarrying anyway.
Until I figure out why, I won't start new ones,
busy as I am with all the stuff
from overseas:  my mother in Singapore
confides that third brother has been checked
into an institution. Apparently there had been a fuss.
Don't tell father I told you, she adds. I won't,
I say into the phone, wondering with whom
I'm being more complicit. My Hunanese friend
didn't reply to my IM for one whole night,
and only the next day tells me the news
that he didn't get into grad school in Shanghai.
Had it not been for my encouragement in the first place,
would his disappointment have been less strong?
A Taiwanese friend complains that the wrong president
has been elected. I wonder what Xiaogang thinks,
with whom I severed contact.
I had said unretractable things to him in KL,
which he unfairly would not let me retract, crying
"There's no use forcing friendship after the fact."
New in Beijing, my Hong Kong friend
sends an Email mistakenly identifying Aristotle
as the originator of Aristophanes's  "two halves" story
in the header. In the body, she announces
her engagement with Colm,
a new person she just met 28 days ago.
I undeceive her about Aristophanes.
Jean-Michel deletes me from his messenger —
first from his Médecins Sans Frontières account,
then from his U.K. home.
I wonder if this is a function of
too many new people clogging up his Skype,
though I then remember that he did lose grandmaman
shortly before I said "Peut-être" to his "A bientôt,"
and then over his "Arrête!"
drew the lips of my laptop shut.
In San Francisco, B. whom I love
is making a film I won't ever see.
The memory is still fresh in my mind,
of our knees knocking under the table
as above, he takes my hand in his.

posted by SHALINE (potato)

Homecoming

Homecoming

          I

Being told to love you
only breeds resentment
that I learn to bury.
What should be natural
is now nurtured into
docile sterility,
cultivated and pruned
till it relents and dies.
Every August, what love
that remains for you grows
out of its grave, summoned
by on-air pageantry.
For one night, it flowers
forth and you are worth it,
persuading me I would
regret not being part
of you. Each time, I pray
for that feeling to last,
knowing it will be gone
after the fireworks fade.

          II

Here at the exchange point,
boys file off the ferries
dressed in every colour
of the spectrum, scheduled
for a transformation:
grooming into green gear.
When asked to, I will swear
fealty with forked tongue,
using words forgotten
soon as they are spoken,
handing over body
so love and devotion
can be hammered down deep,
invisible lessons
intended to take root.
Whenever my heart tries
to bleed, treading the mud
of the island will serve
to cauterise its stump,
to teach it self-control.

          III

I yearn to be able
to love you so deeply
that it hurts and informs
my words against my will,
but my flesh is too weak
and you are not ready.
Instead, I sow distance
between us, to reap and
negotiate with love
strictly on my own terms.
There is no need for guilt
where how I feel for you
(or do not) is concerned.
I have the patience of
a horticulturist:
tending my affection
in a guarded corner,
until you have ripened
enough to love me back,
or I to compromise.


posted by SHALINE(potato)

The Unknown Citizen - W.H. Auden

(To JS/07/M/378 This Marble Monument Is Erected by the State)

He was found by the Bureau of Statistics to be
One against whom there was no official complaint,
And all the reports of his conduct agree
That, in the modern sense of the old-fashioned word, he was a saint,
For in everything he did he served the Greater Community.
Except for the war till the day he retired
He worked in a factory and never got fired,
But satisfied his employers, Fudge Motors Inc.
Yet he wasn't a scab or odd in his views,
For his union reports that he paid his dues,
(Our report of his union shows it was sound)
And our Social Psychology workers found
That he was popular with his mates and liked a drink.
The Press are convinced that he bought a paper every day,
And that his reactions to advertisements were normal in every way.
Policies taken out in his name prove that he was fully insured,
And his Health-card shows that he was once in hospital but left it cured.
Both Producers Research and High--Grade Living declare
He was fully sensible to the advantages of the Installment Plan
And had everything necessary to the Modern Man,
A gramophone, a radio, a car and a frigidaire.
Our researchers into Public Opinion are content
That he held the proper opinions for the time of the year;
When there was peace he was for peace; when there was war he went.
He was married and added five children to the population,
which our Eugenist says was the right number for a parent of his generation,
And our teachers report he never interfered with their education.
Was he free? Was he happy? The question is absurd:
Had anything been wrong, we should certainly have heard.

Full Moon and Little Frieda - Ted Hughes

A cool small evening shrunk to a dog bark and the clank of a bucket -
And you listening.
A spider's web, tense for the dew's touch.
A pail lifted, still and brimming - mirror
To tempt a first star to a tremor.

Cows are going home in the lane there, looping the hedges with their warm
wreaths of breath -
A dark river of blood, many boulders,
Balancing unspilled milk.
'Moon!' you cry suddenly, 'Moon! Moon!'

The moon has stepped back like an artist gazing amazed at a work
That points at him amazed

Valentine - Carol Ann Duffy

Not a red rose or a satin heart.

I give you an onion.
It is a moon wrapped in brown paper.
It promises light
like the careful undressing of love.

Here.
It will blind you with tears
like a lover.
It will make your reflection
a wobbling photo of grief.

I am trying to be truthful.

Not a cute card or a kissogram.

I give you an onion.
Its fierce kiss will stay on your lips,
possessive and faithful
as we are,
for as long as we are.

Take it.
Its platinum loops shrink to a wedding-ring,
if you like.

Lethal.
Its scent will cling to your fingers,
cling to your knife.

The Pool Players - Gwendolyn Brooks

We real cool. We
Left school. We

Lurk late. We
Strike straight. We

Sing sin. We
Thin gin. We

Jazz June. We
Die soon.

One Art - Elizabeth Bishop

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster,

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three beloved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

-- Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) a disaster.

Bath By Amy Lowell

The day is fresh-washed and fair, and there is a smell of tulips and narcissus in the air.
       The sunshine pours in at the bath-room window and bores through the water in the bath-tub in lathes and planes of greenish-white. It cleaves the water into flaws like a jewel, and cracks it to bright light.
       Little spots of sunshine lie on the surface of the water and dance, dance, and their reflections wobble deliciously over the ceiling; a stir of my finger sets them whirring, reeling. I move a foot and the planes of light in the water jar. I lie back and laugh, and let the green-white water, the sun-flawed beryl water, flow over me. The day is almost too bright to bear, the green water covers me from the too bright day. I will lie here awhile and play with the water and the sun spots. The sky is blue and high. A crow flaps by the window, and there is a whiff of tulips and narcissus in the air.

somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond by E. E. Cummings

somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands

Do not go gentle into that good night by 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 they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their 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 sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the 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.

Butter By Connie Wanek

Butter, like love,

seems common enough

yet has so many imitators.

I held a brick of it, heavy and cool,

and glimpsed what seemed like skin

beneath a corner of its wrap;

the décolletage revealed

a most attractive fat!

And most refined.

Not milk, not cream,

not even crème de la crème.

It was a delicacy which assured me

that bliss follows agitation,

that even pasture daisies

through the alchemy of four stomachs

may grace a king's table.

We have a yellow bowl near the toaster

where summer's butter grows

soft and sentimental.

We love it better for its weeping,

its nostalgia for buckets and churns

and deep stone wells,

for the press of a wooden butter mold

shaped like a swollen heart.

Where the Bee Sucks, There Suck I by William Shakespeare

Where the bee sucks, there suck I:

In a cowslip’s bell I lie;

There I couch when owls do cry.

On the bat’s back I do fly

After summer merrily.   

Merrily, merrily shall I live now

Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.

Another Sunday Morning By Carter Revard

What I walked down to the highway for,

                                   through the summer dawn,

                                            was the Sunday funnies,

                     or so I thought—

                                      but what I remember reading there

                           in the shadowless light

                                               among meadowlarks singing

                     was tracks in the deep warm dust

                                           of the lane, where it parted

                                  with its beige dryness the meadow’s dew—

                    the sleek trail where a snake had crossed

                        and slid into tall grass;

                                                  the stippled parallels

                with marks between them where

                                                  a black blister-beetle had dragged

                                 its bulbous belly across

                      in search of weeds more green;

                                                              the labyrinth of lacelike

            dimples left by a speed-freak

                                        tiger-beetles’s sprints that ended

                                         where it took wing

                              with a little blur of dust-grains;

                                            and stepping through the beetle-trails,

         the wedge-heels and sharp-clawed hands of skunk-track

                              crossing unhurried and walking

                                       along the ditch to find

                                  an easy place for climbing;    

not far past that,

            a line of cat-prints running

                                               straight down the lane and ending

        with deep marks where it leaped

                                                  across the ditch to the meadow

                 for birds asleep or wandering baby rabbits:

and freshly placed this morning,

                                               the slender runes

                                      of bob-whites running, scuffles

                    of dustbaths taken—

                                        and there ahead

crouched low at the lane-edge

                                     under purple pokeweed-berries

                     four quail had seen me,

                    and when I walked slowly

                    on toward them, instead

                           of flying they ran

with a fluid scuttling

                                     on down the lane and stopped frozen

                                               till I came too close

               —then quietly when

                     I expected an explosion

         of wings they took off low and whispering

                and sailed, rocking and tilting

                                          out over the meadow’s tall bluestem,

             dropped down and were gone until

 I heard them whistling, down by the little pond,

                 and whistled back so sharply

               that when I got back to the  house

                  they still were answering

                   and one flew into the elm

                  and whistled from its shadows

                                                  up over the porch where I sat

       reading the funnies while the kittens

                         played with the headlines

                                         till when the first gold sunlight

                 tipped the elm’s leaves he flew

back out to the meadow and sank

                                   down into the sun-brilliant dew

                             on curving wings,

                and my brothers and sisters waked

                                           by the whistling came pouring out

       onto the porch and claimed their share

                                  of the Sunday funnies—

                     and I went on to read

           the headlines of World War Two,

with maps of the struggling armies leaving

                                            tank-tracks over the dunes of Libya

                            and the navies churning their wakes

                             of phosphorescence in the Coral Sea

                             where the ships went down on fire

                             and the waves bobbed and flamed

                          with the maimed survivors , screaming

                                  in Japanese or English until

                                  their gasoline-blistered heads

                                  sank down to the tiger sharks

                                   and the war was lost or won

                                 for children sitting in sunlight,

                                  believing their cause was just

                                 and knowing it would prevail,

                                   as the dew vanished away.

Love Among the Ruins by Robert Browning

Where the quiet-coloured end of evening smiles,

         Miles and miles

On the solitary pastures where our sheep

         Half-asleep

Tinkle homeward thro' the twilight, stray or stop

         As they crop—

Was the site once of a city great and gay,

         (So they say)

Of our country's very capital, its prince

         Ages since

Held his court in, gathered councils, wielding far

         Peace or war.

Now the country does not even boast a tree,

         As you see,

To distinguish slopes of verdure, certain rills

         From the hills

Intersect and give a name to, (else they run

         Into one)

Where the domed and daring palace shot its spires

         Up like fires

O'er the hundred-gated circuit of a wall

         Bounding all

Made of marble, men might march on nor be prest

         Twelve abreast.

And such plenty and perfection, see, of grass

         Never was!

Such a carpet as, this summer-time, o'er-spreads

         And embeds

Every vestige of the city, guessed alone,

         Stock or stone—

Where a multitude of men breathed joy and woe

         Long ago;

Lust of glory pricked their hearts up, dread of shame

         Struck them tame;

And that glory and that shame alike, the gold

         Bought and sold.

Now—the single little turret that remains

         On the plains,

By the caper overrooted, by the gourd

         Overscored,

While the patching houseleek's head of blossom winks

         Through the chinks—

Marks the basement whence a tower in ancient time

         Sprang sublime,

And a burning ring, all round, the chariots traced

         As they raced,

And the monarch and his minions and his dames

         Viewed the games.

And I know, while thus the quiet-coloured eve

         Smiles to leave

To their folding, all our many-tinkling fleece

         In such peace,

And the slopes and rills in undistinguished grey

         Melt away—

That a girl with eager eyes and yellow hair

         Waits me there

In the turret whence the charioteers caught soul

         For the goal,

When the king looked, where she looks now, breathless, dumb

            Till I come.

But he looked upon the city, every side,

         Far and wide,

All the mountains topped with temples, all the glades'

         Colonnades,

All the causeys, bridges, aqueducts,—and then

         All the men!

When I do come, she will speak not, she will stand,

         Either hand

On my shoulder, give her eyes the first embrace

         Of my face,

Ere we rush, ere we extinguish sight and speech

         Each on each.

In one year they sent a million fighters forth

         South and North,

And they built their gods a brazen pillar high

         As the sky

Yet reserved a thousand chariots in full force—

         Gold, of course.

O heart! oh blood that freezes, blood that burns!

         Earth's returns

For whole centuries of folly, noise and sin!

         Shut them in,

With their triumphs and their glories and the rest!

         Love is best.

On Another's Sorrow by William Blake

Can I see another's woe,
And not be in sorrow too?
Can I see another's grief,
And not seek for kind relief? 

Can I see a falling tear,
And not feel my sorrow's share?
Can a father see his child
Weep, nor be with sorrow filled? 
 
Can a mother sit and hear
An infant groan, an infant fear?
No, no! never can it be!
Never, never can it be! 
 
And can He who smiles on all
Hear the wren with sorrows small,
Hear the small bird's grief and care,
Hear the woes that infants bear - 
 
And not sit beside the nest,
Pouring pity in their breast,
And not sit the cradle near,
Weeping tear on infant's tear? 
 
And not sit both night and day,
Wiping all our tears away?
O no! never can it be!
Never, never can it be! 
 
He doth give His joy to all:
He becomes an infant small,
He becomes a man of woe,
He doth feel the sorrow too. 
 
Think not thou canst sigh a sigh,
And thy Maker is not by:
Think not thou canst weep a tear,
And thy Maker is not near. 
 
O He gives to us His joy,
That our grief He may destroy:
Till our grief is fled and gone
He doth sit by us and moan. 

The Little Black Boy by William Blake

The Little Black Boy

My mother bore me in the southern wild,
And I am black, but oh! my soul is white.
White as an angel is the English child,
But I am black as if bereaved of light.

My mother taught me underneath a tree,
And, sitting down before the heat of day,
She took me on her lap and kissed me,
And pointing to the east began to say:

"Look on the rising sun, -there God does live
And gives his light, and gives his heat away;
And flowers and trees and beasts and men receive
Comfort in morning, joy in the noonday.

And we are put on earth a little space
That we may learn to bear the beams of love;
And these black bodies and this sunburnt face
Is but a cloud, and like a shady grove.

For when our souls have learned the heat to bear
The cloud will vanish, we shall hear his voice
Saying: `Come out from the grove, my love and care,
And round my golden tent like lambs rejoice!' "

Thus did my mother say, and kissed me;
And thus I say to little English boy:
When I from black and he from white cloud free,
And round the tent of God like lambs we joy,

I'll shade him from the heat till he can bear
To lean in joy upon our father's knee;
And then I'll stand and stroke his silver hair,
And be like him, and he will then love me.

The Lamb by William Blake

The Lamb

Little lamb, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee,
Gave thee life, and bid thee feed
By the stream and o'er the mead;
Gave thee clothing of delight,
Softest clothing, woolly, bright;
Gave thee such a tender voice,
Making all the vales rejoice? 
    Little lamb, who made thee? 
    Dost thou know who made thee?

    Little lamb, I'll tell thee;
    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!

My Last Duchess by Robert Browning

That's my last Duchess painted on the wall,
Looking as if she were alive. I call
That piece a wonder, now: Frà Pandolf's hands
Worked busily a day, and there she stands.
Will 't please you sit and look at her? I said
'Frà Pandolf' by design, for never read
Strangers like you that pictured countenance,
The depth and passion of its earnest glance,
But to myself they turned (since none puts by
The curtain I have drawn for you, but I)
And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,
How such a glance came there; so, not the first
Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 't was not
Her husband's presence only, called that spot
Of joy into the Duchess' cheek: perhaps
Frà Pandolf chanced to say, 'Her mantle laps
Over my lady's wrist too much,' or 'Paint
Must never hope to reproduce the faint
Half-flush that dies along her throat:' such stuff
Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough
For calling up that spot of joy. She had
A heart -- how shall I say? -- too soon made glad,
Too easily impressed; she liked whate'er
She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.
Sir, 't was all one! My favour at her breast,
The dropping of the daylight in the West,
The bough of cherries some officious fool
Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule
She rode with round the terrace -- all and each
Would draw from her alike the approving speech,  
Or blush, at least. She thanked men, -- good! but thanked
Somehow -- I know not how -- as if she ranked
My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name
With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame
This sort of trifling? Even had you skill
In speech -- (which I have not) -- to make your will
Quite clear to such an one, and say, 'Just this
Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss,
Or there exceed the mark' -- and if she let
Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set
Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse,
-- E'en then would be some stooping; and I choose
Never to stoop. Oh, sir, she smiled, no doubt,
Whene'er I passed her; but who passed without
Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands;
Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands
As if alive. Will 't please you rise? We'll meet
The company below then. I repeat,
The Count your master's known munificence
Is ample warrant that no just pretence
Of mine for dowry will be disallowed;
Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed
At starting, is my object. Nay, we'll go
Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though,
Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity,
Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!

The Daffodils by William Wordsworth

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 leaves 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.
 

Aunt Jennifer's Tigers by Adrienne Rich

Aunt Jennifer's tigers prance across a screen, 
Bright topaz denizens of a world of green. 
They do not fear the men beneath the tree; 
They pace in sleek chivalric certainty. 

Aunt Jennifer's fingers fluttering through her wool 
Find even the ivory needle hard to pull. 
The massive weight of Uncle's wedding band 
Sits heavily upon Aunt Jennifer's hand. 

When Aunt is dead, her terrified hands will lie 
Still ringed with ordeals she was mastered by. 
The tigers in the panel that she made 
Will go on prancing, proud and unafraid.

To An Athlete Dying Young by A. E. Housman

The time you won your town the race We chaired you through the market-place; Man and boy stood cheering by, And home we brought you shoulder-high. To-day, the road all runners come, Shoulder-high we bring you home, And set you at your threshold down, Townsman of a stiller town. Smart lad, to slip betimes away From fields where glory does not stay, And early though the laurel grows It withers quicker than the rose. Eyes the shady night has shut Cannot see the record cut, And silence sounds no worse than cheers After earth has stopped the ears: Now you will not swell the rout Of lads that wore their honours out, Runners whom renown outran And the name died before the man. So set, before its echoes fade, The fleet foot on the sill of shade, And hold to the low lintel up The still-defended challenge-cup. And round that early-laurelled head Will flock to gaze the strengthless dead, And find unwithered on its curls The garland briefer than a girl's.