THE RAVEN

Edgar Allan Poe 1809-49

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 name Lenore -

Nameless here for evermore.

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;-

This it is, and nothing more.'

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,

'Sir,' said I, 'or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;

But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,

And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,

That I scarce was sure I heard you'- here I opened wide the door -

Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering,

fearing,

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;

But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,

And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, 'Lenore!'

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, 'Lenore!' -

Merely this, and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,

Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.

'Surely,' said I, 'surely that is something at my window lattice:

Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -

Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore -

'Tis the wind and nothing more.'

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and

flutter,

In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore;

Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed

he;

But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door -

Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door -

Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore.

'Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, 'art sure no

craven,

Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore -

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's *Plutonian shore!'

Quoth the Raven, 'Nevermore.

*Plutonian - describes something associated with the underworld

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 blest with seeing bird above his chamber door -

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,

With such name as 'Nevermore.'

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.

Nothing further then he uttered- not a feather then he fluttered -

Till I scarcely more than muttered, 'other friends have flown

before -

On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.'

Then the bird said, 'Nevermore.'

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,

'Doubtless,' said I, 'what it utters is its only stock and store,

Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster

Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -

Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore

Of 'Never - nevermore'.'

But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy 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.'

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 thy memories of Lenore!

Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!'

Quoth the Raven, 'Nevermore.'

*Nepenthe - a drug described in Homer's Odyssey as banishing grief or trouble from a person's mind

'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.'

*Gilead - a region of ancient Palestine known for its balm (a fragrant ointment used to soothe or heal the skin.)

'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 rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.'

Quoth the Raven, 'Nevermore.'

*Aidenn - paradise

'Be that word our sign in 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's 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! 

-o0o-

MR. NOBODY

Anon

I know a funny little man,

As quiet as a mouse,

Who does the mischief that is done

In everybody's house!

There's no one ever sees his face,

And yet we all agree

That every plate we break was cracked

By Mr. Nobody.

Tis he who always tears our books,

Who leaves the door ajar,

He pulls the buttons from our shirts,

And scatters pine afar;

That squeaking door will always squeak,

For, prithee, don't you see,

We leave the oiling to be done

By Mr. Nobody.

He damps wood up the fire,

That kettles cannot boil;

His are the feet that brings in mud,

And all the carpet soil.

The papers always are mislaid,

Who had them last but he?

There's no one tosses them about

But Mr. Nobody.

The finger marks upon the door

By none of us are made;

We never leave the blind unclosed,

To let the curtains fade.

The ink we never spill. The boots,

That lying round you see,

Are not our boots; they all belong

To Mr. Nobody.

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BREATHLESS

 “Master Revelation”

I'm not too fit, I'll have you know,

I'm overweight and rather slow,

But when I run, I manage; though

I'm breathless!

Though in the past it was not thus,

I am not one to swear and cuss,

Except that, trying to catch a bus,

I'm breathless!

When as a youth, I used to play

With sweet young ladies in the hay,

The girls would be the ones to say:

"I'm breathless"!

At sport I'd always stay the course,

I was as strong as any horse,

But now, with just a little force,

I'm breathless!

I guess my life has reached the stage

When these things happen at my age.

If all my passions I assuage,

I'm breathless!

No longer, now, do I aspire

To climb a mountain, walk on fire,

Instead I curb each wild desire:

I'm breathless!

-o0o-

THE ROSE

Amanda McBroom

Some say love, it is a river

That drowns the tender reed.

Some say love, it is a razor

That leaves your soul to bleed.

Some say love, it is a hunger,

An endless aching need.

I say love, it is a flower,

And you it's only seed.

It's the heart afraid of breaking

That never learns to dance.

It's the dream afraid of waking

That never takes the chance.

It's the one who won't be taken,

Who cannot seem to give,

And the soul afraid of dying

That never learns to live.

When the night has been too lonely

And the road has been to long,

And you think that love is only

For the lucky and the strong,

Just remember in the winter

Far beneath the bitter snows

Lies the seed that with the sun's love

In the spring becomes the rose.

-o-0-o-

STELLA'S BIRTHDAY - March 13th 1719

 Jonathan Swift 1667-1745

Stella this day is thirty-four,

(We shan't dispute a year or more:)

However, Stella, be not troubled,

Although thy size and years are doubled,

Since first I saw thee at sixteen,

The brightest virgin on the green;

So little is thy form declined;

Made up so largely in thy mind.

Oh, would it please the gods to split

Thy beauty, size, and years, and wit;

No age could furnish out a pair

Of nymphs so graceful, wise, and fair;

With half the lustre of your eyes,

With half your wit, your years, and size.

And then, before it grew too late,

How should I beg of gentle Fate,

(That either nymph might have her swain,)

To split my worship too in twain

-o0o-

Extract from

SONG OF SONGS

 My beloved spake, and said unto me, 

Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away.

For, lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone;

The flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come, 

and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land;

The fig tree putteth forth her green figs, and the vines with the tender grape give a good smell. 

Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away.

-o=0=o-

INVICTUS

William Ernest Henley 1849-1903

Out of the night that covers me,

Black as the Pit from pole to pole,

I thank whatever gods may be

For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance

I have not winced nor cried aloud.

Under the bludgeonings of chance

My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears

Looms but the Horror of the shade,

And yet the menace of the years

Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,

How charged with punishments the scroll.

I am the master of my fate:

I am the captain of my soul. 

-o0o-

A CHARACTER

William Wordsworth 1770-1850

I marvel how Nature could ever find space 

For so many strange contrasts in one human face: 

There's thought and no thought, and there's paleness and bloom 

And bustle and sluggishness, pleasure and gloom. 

There's weakness, and strength both redundant and vain; 

Such strength as, if ever affliction and pain 

Could pierce through a temper that's soft to disease, 

Would be rational peace--a philosopher's ease. 

There's indifference, alike when he fails or succeeds, 

And attention full ten times as much as there needs; 

Pride where there's no envy, there's so much of joy; 

And mildness, and spirit both forward and coy. 

There's freedom, and sometimes a diffident stare 

Of shame scarcely seeming to know that she's there, 

There's virtue, the title it surely may claim, 

Yet wants heaven knows what to be worthy the name. 

This picture from nature may seem to depart, 

Yet the Man would at once run away with your heart; 

And I for five centuries right gladly would be 

Such an odd such a kind happy creature as he. 

-o0o-

WHEN YOU ARE OLD

William Butler Yeats 1865-1939

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,

And nodding by the fire, take down this book,

And slowly read, and dream of the soft look

Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,

And loved your beauty with love false or true,

But one man loved the pilgrim Soul in you,

And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,

Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled

And paced upon the mountains overhead

And hid his face amid a crowd of stars. 

-o0o-

SHE SAW A MAN ON TELEVISION

Sophia White (no date available)

She saw a man on television

In a suit and tie

And he wore a fine felt hat

Cocked over his eye.

She saw him sing and whistle

And dance a little step

And she wished the men today

Would not be so unkempt.

She saw a man on television

Woo a pretty lass

With smiles, winks, and daffodils, 

And diamonds made of glass.

She saw him tip his hat to her

And offer her his arm

And lead her to the dance floor

With gentlemanly charm.

She saw a man on television

Smile with easy grace

And wished that she could find a man

With such an honest face.

But she knew that man on television

Was a dying breed

And suits and ties and tall felt hats

Had all grown obsolete. 

-o0o-

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CONFUCIUS HE SAY
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FROM A CARRIAGE WINDOW

Alexander Anderson 1845-1909

Just a peep from a carriage window,

As we stood for a moment still,

Just one look - and no more - till the engine

Gave a whistle sharp and shrill.

But I saw in that moment the heather,

That lay like a purple sheet

On the hills that watch o’er the hamlet

That sleeps like a child at their feet.

O, sweet are those hills when the winter

Flings round them his mantle of snow,

And sweet when the sunshine of summer

Sets their fair green bosoms aglow.

But sweeter and grander in autumn,

When the winds are soft with desire,

When the buds of the heather take blossom,

And run to their summits like fire.

I saw each and all through the heather

That purple lay spread like a sheet

On the hills that watch over the hamlet,

That sleeps like a child at their feet.

-o0o-

ALL THE THINGS YOU ARE

Oscar Hammerstein II 1895-1960

Time and again I've longed for adventure,

Something to make my heart beat the faster.

What did I long for? I never really knew.

Finding your love I've found my adventure,

Touching your hand, my heart beats the faster,

All that I want in all of this world is you.

You are the promised kiss of springtime

That makes the lonely winter seem long.

You are the breathless hush of evening

That trembles on the brink of a lovely song.

You are the angel glow that lights a star,

The dearest things I know are what you are.

Some day my happy arms will hold you,

And some day I'll know that moment divine,

When all the things you are, are mine!

-o0o-

THE MOUNTAIN MAID

Dora Sigerson Shorter 1866-1918

Half seated on a mossy crag,

Half crouching in the heather;

I found a little Irish maid,

All in June's golden weather.

Like some fond hand that loved the child,

The wind tossed back her tresses;

The heath-bells touched her unclad feet

With shy and soft caresses.

A mountain linnet flung his song

Into the air around her;

But all in vain the splendid hour,

For deep in woe I found her.

"Ahone! Ahone! Ahone!" she wept,

The tears fell fast and faster;

I sat myself beside her there,

To hear of her disaster.

Like dew on roses down her cheek

The diamond drops were stealing;

She laid her two brown hands in mine,

Her trouble all revealing.

Alas! Alas! the tale she told

In Gaelic low and tender;

A plague upon my Saxon tongue,

I could not comprehend her. 

-o0o-

ON A PAINTED WOMAN

Percy Byshe Shelley 1792-1822

To youths, who hurry thus away,

How silly your desire is

At such an early hour to pay

Your compliments to Iris.

Stop, prithee, stop, ye hasty beaux,

No longer urge this race on;

Though Iris has put on her clothes, 

She has not put her face on.

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LOVE
Sri Chinmoy 1931-2007

Love is not a thing to understand.
Love is not a thing to feel.
Love is not a thing to give and receive.
Love is a thing only to become
And eternally be.

-o0o-

ALL THE WORLD'S A STAGE
William Shakespeare 1564-1616

All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

-o0o-

A POISON TREE
William Blake 1757-1827

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

And I watered it in fears,
Night and morning with my tears;
And I sunned it with smiles,
And with soft deceitful wiles.

And it grew both day and night,
Till it bore an apple bright.
And my foe beheld it shine.
And he knew that it was mine,

And into my garden stole
When the night had veiled the pole;
In the morning glad I see
My foe outstretched beneath the tree.

-o0o-

PHENOMENAL WOMAN

Maya Angelou 1928-2014

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.

I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size

But when I start to tell them,

They think I'm telling lies.

I say,

It's in the reach of my arms

The span of my hips,

The stride of my step,

The curl of my lips.

I'm a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,

That's me.

I walk into a room

Just as cool as you please,

And to a man,

The fellows stand or

Fall down on their knees.

Then they swarm around me,

A hive of honey bees.

I say,

It's the fire in my eyes,

And the flash of my teeth,

The swing in my waist,

And the joy in my feet.

I'm a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,

That's me.

Men themselves have wondered

What they see in me.

They try so much

But they can't touch

My inner mystery.

When I try to show them

They say they still can't see.

I say,

It's in the arch of my back,

The sun of my smile,

The ride of my breasts,

The grace of my style.

I'm a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,

That's me.

Now you understand

Just why my head's not bowed.

I don't shout or jump about

Or have to talk real loud.

When you see me passing

It ought to make you proud.

I say,

It's in the click of my heels,

The bend of my hair,

the palm of my hand,

The need of my care,

'Cause I'm a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,

That's me. 

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THE THRUSH'S NEST

John Clare 1793-1864

Within a thick and spreading hawthorn bush

That overhung a mole-hill large and round,

I heard from morn to morn a merry thrush 

Sing hymns to sunrise, while I drank the sound

With joy; and, often an intruding guest,

I watched her secret toils from day to day - 

How true she warped the moss to form a nest,

And modelled it from within with wood and clay;

And by and by, like heath-bells gilt with dew,

There lay her shining eggs, as bright as flowers,

Ink-spotted over shells of greeny blue;

And there I witnessed, in the sunny hours,

A brood of nature's minstrels chirp and fly,

Glad as that sunshine and the laughing sky.

-o0o-

THE SOLITARY REAPER

William Wordsworth 1770-1850

Behold her, single in the field,

Yon solitary Highland Lass!

Reaping and singing by herself;

Stop here, or gently pass!

Alone she cuts and binds the grain,

And sings a melancholy strain;

O listen! for the Vale profound

Is overflowing with the sound.

No Nightingale did ever chaunt

More welcome notes to weary bands

Of travellers in some shady haunt,

Among Arabian sands:

A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard

In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,

Breaking the silence of the seas

Among the farthest Hebrides.

Will no one tell me what she sings?—

Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow

For old, unhappy, far-off things,

And battles long ago:

Or is it some more humble lay,

Familiar matter of to-day?

Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,

That has been, and may be again?

Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang

As if her song could have no ending;

I saw her singing at her work,

And o'er the sickle bending;—

I listened, motionless and still;

And, as I mounted up the hill,

The music in my heart I bore,

Long after it was heard no more.

-o0o-

THE LONG WHITE SEAM

Jean Ingelow 1820–97

As I came round the harbour buoy,

  The lights began to gleam,

No wave the land-lock’d water stirr’d,

  The crags were white as cream;

And I mark’d my love by candle-light         

  Sewing her long white seam.

    It ’s aye sewing ashore, my dear,

      Watch and steer at sea,

    It ’s reef and furl, and haul the line,

      Set sail and think of thee.         

I climb’d to reach her cottage door;

  O sweetly my love sings!

Like a shaft of light her voice breaks forth,

  My soul to meet it springs

As the shining water leap’d of old,         

  When stirr’d by angel wings.

    Aye longing to list anew,

      Awake and in my dream,

    But never a song she sang like this,

      Sewing her long white seam.         

Fair fall the lights, the harbour lights,

  That brought me in to thee,

And peace drop down on that low roof

  For the sight that I did see,

And the voice, my dear, that rang so clear         

  All for the love of me.

    For O, for O, with brows bent low

      By the candle’s flickering gleam,

    Her wedding gown it was she wrought,

      Sewing the long white seam.

           -o0o-      

THE THOMAS HARDY POEM

She Charged Me

She charged me with having said this and that

To another woman long years before,

In the very parlour where we sat, -

Sat on a night when the endless pour

Of rain on the roof and the road below

Bent the spring of the spirit more and more . . .

- So charged she me; and the Cupid's bow

Of her mouth was hard, and her eyes, and her face,

And her white forefinger lifted slow.

Had she done it gently, or shown a trace

That not too curiously would she view

A folly passed ere her reign had place,

A kiss might have ended it. But I knew

From the fall of each word, and the pause between,

That the curtain would drop upon us two

Ere long, in our play of slave and queen.

-o=0=o-

A very big selection of Thomas Hardy poems can be found at
THOMAS HARDY
http://casterbridge.blogspot.com

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