English Poems by lolylago

2013 English Department Loly Lago

[ENGLISH POEMS] Selection of English Poems for our Project on Poems & Songs

A Dream Within A Dream by Edgar Allan Poe Take this kiss upon the brow! And, in parting from you now, thus much let me avow-You are not wrong, who deem that my days have been a dream; yet if hope has flown away in a night, or in a day, in a vision, or in none, is it therefore the less gone? All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream. I stand amid the roar of a surf-tormented shore, and I hold within my hand grains of the golden sand-How few! Yet how they creep through my fingers to the deep, while I weep--while I weep! O God! Can I not grasp them with a tighter clasp? O God! Can I not save one from the pitiless wave? Is all that we see or seem but a dream within a dream?

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Alone by Edgar Allan Poe From childhood's hour I have not been as others were; I have not seen as others saw; I could not bring my passions from a common spring. From the same source I have not taken my sorrow; I could not awaken my heart to joy at the same tone; and all I loved, I loved alone. Then- in my childhood, in the dawn of a most stormy life- was drawn from every depth of good and ill the mystery which binds me still: From the torrent, or the fountain, from the red cliff of the mountain, from the sun that round me rolled in its autumn tint of gold, from the lightning in the sky as it passed me flying by, from the thunder and the storm, and the cloud that took the form (When the rest of Heaven was blue) of a demon in my view.

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Romance by Edgar Allan Poe Romance, who loves to nod and sing with drowsy head and folded wing among the green leaves as they shake far down within some shadowy lake, to me a painted paroquet Hath been—most familiar bird— taught me my alphabet to say, to lisp my very earliest word while in the wild wood I did lie, a child—with a most knowing eye. Of late, eternal condor years so shake the very Heaven on high with tumult as they thunder by, I have no time for idle cares through gazing on the unquiet sky; and when an hour with calmer wings its down upon my spirit flings, that little time with lyre and rhyme to while away—forbidden things— my heart would feel to be a crime unless it trembled with the strings.

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Song by Edgar Allan Poe I SAW thee on thy bridal day when a burning blush came o'er thee, though happiness around thee lay, the world all love before thee: And in thine eye a kindling light (whatever it might be) was all on Earth my aching sight of Loveliness could see. That blush, perhaps, was maiden shame as such it well may pass though its glow hath raised a fiercer flame in the breast of him, alas! Who saw thee on that bridal day, when that deep blush would come o'er thee, though happiness around thee lay, the world all love before thee.

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I carry your heart with me by E. E. Cummings I carry your heart with me(I carry it in my heart) I am never without it (anywhere I go you go, my dear; and whatever is done by only me is your doing, my darling) U fear no fate(for you are my fate, my sweet) I want no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true) and itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s you are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing is you Here is the deepest secret nobody knows (here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows higher than soul can hope or mind can hide) and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart I carry your heart (I carry it in my heart)

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I'm Nobody! Who are you? by Emily Dickinson I'm Nobody! Who are you? Are you -- Nobody -- Too? Then there's a pair of us! Don't tell! they'd advertise -- you know!

How dreary -- to be -- Somebody! How public -- like a Frog -To tell one's name -- the livelong June -To an admiring Bog!

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Nobody knows this little Rose by Emily Dickinson Nobody knows this little Rose -it might a pilgrim be Did I not take it from the ways and lift it up to thee. Only a Bee will miss it -Only a Butterfly, hastening from far journey -On its breast to lie -Only a Bird will wonder -Only a Breeze will sigh -Ah Little Rose -- how easy for such as thee to die!

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There is another sky by Emily Dickinson There is another sky, ever serene and fair, and there is another sunshine, though it be darkness there; never mind faded forests, Austin, never mind silent fields here is a little forest, whose leaf is ever green; here is a brighter garden, where not a frost has been; in its unfading flowers I hear the bright bee hum: Prithee, my brother, into my garden come!

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Axe Handles by Gary Snyder One afternoon the last week in April showing Kai how to throw a hatchet one-half turn and it sticks in a stump. He recalls the hatchet-head without a handle, in the shop and go gets it, and wants it for his own. A broken-off axe handle behind the door is long enough for a hatchet, we cut it to length and take it with the hatchet head and working hatchet, to the wood block. There I begin to shape the old handle with the hatchet, and the phrase first learned from Ezra Pound rings in my ears! "When making an axe handle the pattern is not far off." And I say this to Kai "Look: We'll shape the handle by checking the handle of the axe we cut withâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;" And he sees. And I hear it again: It's in Lu Ji's We Fu, fourth century A.D. "Essay on Literature" - in the Preface: "In making the handle of an axe by cutting wood with an axe the model is indeed near at hand." My teacher Shih-hsiang Chen translated that and taught it years ago and I see: Pound was an axe, Chen was an axe, I am an axe and my son a handle, soon to be shaping again, model and tool, craft of culture, how we go on.

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As Soon as Fred Gets Out of Bed by Jack Prelutsky As soon as Fred gets out of bed, his underwear goes on his head. His mother laughs, "Don't put it there, a head's no place for underwear!" But near his ears, above his brains, is where Fred's underwear remains.

At night when Fred goes back to bed, he deftly plucks it off his head. His mother switches off the light and softly croons, "Good night! Good night!" And then, for reasons no one knows, Fred's underwear goes on his toes.

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Be Glad Your Nose is on Your Face by Jack Prelutsky Be glad your nose is on your face, not pasted on some other place, for if it were where it is not, you might dislike your nose a lot.

Imagine if your precious nose were sandwiched in between your toes, that clearly would not be a treat, for you'd be forced to smell your feet.

Your nose would be a source of dread were it attached atop your head, it soon would drive you to despair, forever tickled by your hair.

Within your ear, your nose would be an absolute catastrophe, for when you were obliged to sneeze, your brain would rattle from the breeze.

Your nose, instead, through thick and thin, remains between your eyes and chin, not pasted on some other place-be glad your nose is on your face!

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Last Night I Dreamed of Chickens by Jack Prelutsky Last night I dreamed of chickens, there were chickens everywhere, they were standing on my stomach, they were nesting in my hair, they were pecking at my pillow, they were hopping on my head, they were ruffling up their feathers as they raced about my bed.

They were on the chairs and tables, they were on the chandeliers, they were roosting in the corners, they were clucking in my ears, there were chickens, chickens, chickens for as far as I could see... when I woke today, I noticed there were eggs on top of me.

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As I grew older by Langston Hudges It was a long time ago. I have almost forgotten my dream. but it was there then, in front of me, bright like a sun-my dream. And then the wall rose, rose slowly, slowly, between me and my dream. rose until it touched the sky-the wall. Shadow. I am black. I lie down in the shadow. No longer the light of my dream before me, above me. Only the thick wall. Only the shadow. My hands! My dark hands! Break through the wall! Find my dream! Help me to shatter this darkness, to smash this night, to break this shadow into a thousand lights of sun, into a thousand whirling dreams of sun!

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She Walks in Beauty by Lord Byron She walks in beauty, like the night of cloudless climes and starry skies; and all that's best of dark and bright meet in her aspect and her eyes: thus mellowed to that tender light which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less, had half impaired the nameless grace which waves in every raven tress, or softly lightens o'er her face; where thoughts serenely sweet express how pure, how dear their dwelling place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, so soft, so calm, yet eloquent, the smiles that win, the tints that glow, but tell of days in goodness spent, a mind at peace with all below, a heart whose love is innocent!

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Men by Maya Angelou When I was young, I used to watch behind the curtains as men walked up and down the street. Wino men, old men. young men sharp as mustard. See them. Men are always going somewhere. They knew I was there. Fifteen years old and starving for them. Under my window, they would pause, their shoulders high like the breasts of a young girl, jacket tails slapping over those behinds, Men. One day they hold you in the palms of their hands, gentle, as if you were the last raw egg in the world. Then they tighten up. Just a little. The first squeeze is nice. A quick hug. Soft into your defenselessness. A little more. The hurt begins. Wrench out a smile that slides around the fear. When the air disappears, Your mind pops, exploding fiercely, briefly, like the head of a kitchen match. Shattered. It is your juice that runs down their legs. Staining their shoes. When the earth rights itself again, and taste tries to return to the tongue, your body has slammed shut. Forever. No keys exist. Then the window draws full upon your mind. There, just beyond the sway of curtains, men walk. knowing something. Going someplace. But this time, I will simply stand and watch. Maybe. - 15 -

Still I Rise by Maya Angelou You may write me down in history with your bitter, twisted lies, you may trod me in the very dirt but still, like dust, I'll rise.

You may shoot me with your words, you may cut me with your eyes, you may kill me with your hatefulness, but still, like air, I'll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you? Why are you beset with gloom? 'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells pumping in my living room.

Does my sexiness upset you? Does it come as a surprise that I dance like I've got diamonds at the meeting of my thighs?

Just like moons and like suns, with the certainty of tides, just like hopes springing high, still I'll rise.

Out of the huts of history's shame I rise Up from a past that's rooted in pain I rise I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide, welling and swelling I bear in the tide.

Did you want to see me broken, bowed head and lowered eyes? Shoulders falling down like teardrops, weakened by my soulful cries.

Leaving behind nights of terror and fear I rise into a daybreak that's wondrously clear I rise bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave, I am the dream and the hope of the slave.

Does my haughtiness offend you? Don't you take it awful hard? 'cause I laugh like I've got gold mines diggin' in my own back yard.

I rise I rise I rise.

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Touched by An Angel by Maya Angelou We, unaccustomed to courage exiles from delight live coiled in shells of loneliness until love leaves its high holy temple and comes into our sight to liberate us into life.

Love arrives and in its train come ecstasies old memories of pleasure ancient histories of pain. Yet if we are bold, love strikes away the chains of fear from our souls.

We are weaned from our timidity. In the flush of love's light we dare be brave and suddenly we see that love costs all we are and will ever be. Yet it is only love which sets us free.

My Voice by Oscar Wilde Within this restless, hurried, modern world we took our hearts' full pleasure - You and I, and now the white sails of our ship are furled, and spent the lading of our argosy.

Wherefore my cheeks before their time are wan, for very weeping is my gladness fled, sorrow has paled my young mouth's vermilion, and ruin draws the curtains of my bed.

But all this crowded life has been to thee no more than lyre, or lute, or subtle spell of viols, or the music of the sea that sleeps, a mimic echo, in the shell.

To My Wife - With A Copy Of My Poems by Oscar Wilde I can write no stately poem as a prelude to my lay; from a poet to a poem I would dare to say.

For if of these fallen petals one to you seem fair, love will waft it till it settles on your hair.

And when wind and winter harden all the loveless land, it will whisper of the garden, you will understand.

If You Forget Me by Pablo Neruda I want you to know one thing.

If you think it long and mad, the wind of banners that passes through my life, and you decide to leave me at the shore of the heart where I have roots, remember that on that day, at that hour, I shall lift my arms and my roots will set off to seek another land.

You know how this is: if I look at the crystal moon, at the red branch of the slow autumn at my window, if I touch near the fire the impalpable ash or the wrinkled body of the log, everything carries me to you, as if everything that exists, aromas, light, metals, were little boats that sail toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

But if each day, each hour, you feel that you are destined for me with implacable sweetness, if each day a flower climbs up to your lips to seek me, ah my love, ah my own, in me all that fire is repeated, in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten, my love feeds on your love, beloved, and as long as you live it will be in your arms without leaving mine

Well, now, if little by little you stop loving me I shall stop loving you little by little. If suddenly you forget me do not look for me, for I shall already have forgotten you.

In memory of my mother by Patrick Kavanagh I do not think of you lying in the wet clay of a Monaghan graveyard; I see you walking down a lane among the poplars on your way to the station, or happily

Going to second Mass on a summer Sunday you meet me and you say: 'Don't forget to see about the cattle - ' among your earthiest words the angels stray.

And I think of you walking along a headland of green oats in June, so full of repose, so rich with life and I see us meeting at the end of a town

On a fair day by accident, after the bargains are all made and we can walk together through the shops and stalls and markets free in the oriental streets of thought.

O you are not lying in the wet clay, for it is a harvest evening now and we are piling up the ricks against the moonlight and you smile up at us - eternally.

Ambulances by Philip Larkin Closed like confessionals, they thread loud noons of cities, giving back none of the glances they absorb. Light glossy grey, arms on a plaque, they come to rest at any kerb: all streets in time are visited. Then children strewn on steps or road, or women coming from the shops past smells of different dinners, see a wild white face that overtops red stretcher-blankets momently as it is carried in and stowed, And sense the solving emptiness that lies just under all we do, and for a second get it whole, so permanent and blank and true. The fastened doors recede. Poor soul, they whisper at their own distress; For borne away in deadened air may go the sudden shut of loss round something nearly at an end, and what cohered in it across the years, the unique random blend of families and fashions, there At last begin to loosen. Far from the exchange of love to lie unreachable insided a room the trafic parts to let go by brings closer what is left to come, and dulls to distance all we are

Stopping by woods on a snowy evening by 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

The road not taken by Robert Frost 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 by Rudyard Kipling 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, or walk with Kings---nor lose the common touch, If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you, If all men count with you, but none too much: If you can fill the unforgiving minute with sixty seconds' worth of distance run, yours is the Earth and everything that's in it, and---which is more---you'll be a Man, my son!

Follower by Seamus Heaney My father worked with a horse plough, his shoulders globed like a full sail strung between the shafts and the furrow. The horses strained at his clicking tongue. An expert. He would set the wing and fit the bright-pointed sock. The sod rolled over without breaking. At the headrig, with a single pluck. Of reins, the sweating team turned round and back into the land. His eye narrowed and angled at the ground, mapping the furrow exactly. I stumbled in his hobnailed wake, fell sometimes on the polished sod; sometimes he rode me on his back dipping and rising to his plod. I wanted to grow up and plough, to close one eye, stiffen my arm. All I ever did was follow in his broad shadow around the farm. I was a nuisance, tripping, falling, yapping always. But today it is my father who keeps stumbling behind me, and will not go away.

Mid-Term Break by Seamus Heany I sat all morning in the college sick bay counting bells knelling classes to a close. At two o'clock our neighbors drove me home. In the porch I met my father crying-he had always taken funerals in his stride-and Big Jim Evans saying it was a hard blow. The baby cooed and laughed and rocked the pram when I came in, and I was embarrassed by old men standing up to shake my hand and tell me they were 'sorry for my trouble,' whispers informed strangers I was the eldest, away at school, as my mother held my hand in hers and coughed out angry tearless sighs. At ten o'clock the ambulance arrived with the corpse, stanched and bandaged by the nurses. Next morning I went up into the room. Snowdrops and candles soothed the bedside; I saw him for the first time in six weeks. Paler now, wearing a poppy bruise on his left temple, he lay in the four foot box as in his cot. No gaudy scars, the bumper knocked him clear. A four foot box, a foot for every year.

Mother of the groom by Seamus Heaney What she remembers is his glistening back in the bath, his small boots in the ring of boots at her feet. Hands in her voided lap, she hears a daughter welcomed. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s as if he kicked when lifted and slipped her soapy hold. Once soap would ease off the wedding ring thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s bedded forever now in her clapping hand.

Base Details by Siegfried Sassoon If I were fierce, and bald, and short of breath, I’d live with scarlet Majors at the Base, and speed glum heroes up the line to death. You’d see me with my puffy petulant face, guzzling and gulping in the best hotel, reading the Roll of Honor. “Poor young chap,” I’d say — “I used to know his father well; yes, we’ve lost heavily in this last scrap.” And when the war is done and youth stone dead, I’d toddle safely home and die — in bed.

Storm on the Island by Ted Hudges We are prepared: we build our houses squat, sink walls in rock and roof them with good slate. The wizened earth had never troubled us with hay, so as you can see, there are no stacks or stooks that can be lost. Nor are there trees which might prove company when it blows full blast: you know what I mean - leaves and branches can raise a chorus in a gale so that you can listen to the thing you fear forgetting that it pummels your house too. But there are no trees, no natural shelter. you might think that the sea is company, exploding comfortably down on the cliffs but no: when it begins, the flung spray hits the very windows, spits like a tame cat turned savage. We just sit tight while wind dives and strafes invisibly. Space is a salvo. We are bombarded by the empty air. Strange, it is a huge nothing that we fear.

Wind by Ted Hudges This house has been far out at sea all night, the woods crashing through darkness, the booming hills, winds stampeding the fields under the window floundering black astride and blinding wet. Till day rose; then under an orange sky the hills had new places, and wind wielded blade-light, luminous black and emerald, flexing like the lens of a mad eye. At noon I scaled along the house-side as far as the coal-house door. Once I looked up -through the brunt wind that dented the balls of my eyes the tent of the hills drummed and strained its guyrope, The fields quivering, the skyline a grimace, at any second to bang and vanish with a flap; the wind flung a magpie away and a blackback gull bent like an iron bar slowly. The house rang like some fine green goblet in the note that any second would shatter it. Now deep in chairs, in front of the great fire, we grip our hearts and cannot entertain book, thought, or each other. We watch the fire blazing, and feel the roots of the house move, but sit on, seeing the window tremble to come in, hearing the stones cry out under the horizons.

Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman As I Ponder’d in Silence 1 AS I ponder’d in silence, returning upon my poems, considering, lingering long, a Phantom arose before me, with distrustful aspect, terrible in beauty, age, and power, the genius of poets of old lands, as to me directing like flame its eyes, with finger pointing to many immortal songs, and menacing voice, What singest thou? it said; know’st thou not, there is but one theme for ever-enduring bards? and that is the theme of War, the fortune of battles, the making of perfect soldiers?

2 Be it so, then I answer’d, I too, haughty Shade, also sing war—and a longer and greater one than any, waged in my book with varying fortune—with flight, advance, and retreat—Victory deferr’d and wavering, (yet, methinks, certain, or as good as certain, at the last,)—the field the world; for life and death—for the Body, and for the eternal Soul, Lo! too am come, chanting the chant of battles, I, above all, promote brave soldiers.

Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman One’s-Self I Sing ONE’S-SELF I sing—a simple, separate Person; yet utter the word Democratic, the word En-masse.

Of Physiology from top to toe I sing; not physiognomy alone, nor brain alone, is worthy for the muse—I say the form complete is worthier far; the Female equally with the male I sing.

Of Life immense in passion, pulse, and power, cheerful—for freest action form’d, under the laws divine, the Modern Man I sing.

Tich Miller by Wendy Cope Tich Miller wore glasses with elastoplast-pink frames and had one foot three sizes larger than the other.

When they picked teams for outdoor games she and I were always the last two left standing by the wire-mesh fence.

We avoided one another’s eyes, stooping, perhaps, to re-tie a shoelace, or affecting interest in the flight

of some fortunate bird, and pretended not to hear the urgent conference: ‘Have Tubby!’ ‘No, no, have Tich!’

Usually they chose me, the lesser dud, and she lolloped, unselected, to the back of the other team.

At eleven we went to different schools. In time I learned to get my own back, sneering at hockey-players who couldn’t spell.

Tich died when she was twelve.

A poison tree by William Blake 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 water'd 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 veil'd the pole; in the morning glad I see; my foe outstretched beneath the tree.

Love's Secret by William Blake Never seek to tell thy love, love that never told can be; for the gentle wind doth move silently, invisibly.

I told my love, I told my love, I told her all my heart, trembling, cold, in ghastly fears. Ah! she did depart!

Soon after she was gone from me, a traveller came by, silently, invisibly: he took her with a sigh

The Garden of Love by William Blake I went to the Garden of Love, and saw what I never had seen: a Chapel was built in the midst, where I used to play on the green.

And the gates of this Chapel were shut, and Thou shalt not write over the door; so I turn'd to the Garden of Love, that so many sweet flowers bore.

And I saw it was filled with graves, and tomb-stones where flowers should be: and Priests in black gowns, were walking their rounds, and binding with briars, my joys & desires.

Dulce et Decorum est by Wilfred Owen Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, till on the haunting flares we turned out backs, and towards our distant rest began to trudge. Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots, but limped on, blood-shod. All went lame, all blind; drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots of gas-shells dropping softly behind. Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!--An ecstasy of fumbling fitting the clumsy helmets just in time, but someone still was yelling out and stumbling and flound'ring like a man in fire or lime.-Dim through the misty panes and thick green light, as under a green sea, I saw him drowning. In all my dreams before my helpless sight he plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning. If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace behind the wagon that we flung him in, and watch the white eyes writhing in his face, his hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin, if you could hear, at every jolt, the blood come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs bitter as the cud Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,-my friend, you would not tell with such high zest to children ardent for some desperate glory, the old Lie: Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori.

The Stolen Child by William Butler Yeats Where dips the rocky highland of Sleuth Wood in the lake, there lies a leafy island where flapping herons wake the drowsy water rats; there we've hid our faery vats, full of berrys and of reddest stolen cherries. Come away, o human child! to the waters and the wild with a faery, hand in hand, for the world's more full of weeping than you can understand. Where the wave of moonlight glosses the dim gray sands with light, far off by furthest Rosses we foot it all the night, weaving olden dances mingling hands and mingling glances till the moon has taken flight; to and fro we leap and chase the frothy bubbles, while the world is full of troubles and anxious in its sleep. Come away, o human child! to the waters and the wild with a faery, hand in hand, for the world's more full of weeping than you can understand. Where the wandering water gushes from the hills above Glen-Car, in pools among the rushes that scarce could bathe a star, we seek for slumbering trout and whispering in their ears give them unquiet dreams; leaning softly out from ferns that drop their tears over the young streams. Come away, o human child! to the waters and the wild with a faery, hand in hand, for the world's more full of weeping than you can understand. Away with us he's going, the solemn-eyed: he'll hear no more the lowing of the calves on the warm hillside or the kettle on the hob sing peace into his breast, or see the brown mice bob round and round the oatmeal chest. For he comes, the human child, to the waters and the wild with a faery, hand in hand, for the world's more full of weeping than he can understand.

A Song From 'The Player Queen' by William Butler Yeats My mother dandled me and sang, 'how young it is, how young!' and made a golden cradle that on a willow swung.

'He went away,' my mother sang, 'when I was brought to bed,' and all the while her needle pulled the gold and silver thread.

She pulled the thread and bit the thread and made a golden gown, and wept because she had dreamt that I was born to wear a crown.

'When she was got,' my mother sang, I heard a sea-mew cry, and saw a flake of the yellow foam that dropped upon my thigh.'

How therefore could she help but braid the gold into my hair, and dream that I should carry the golden top of care?

He Wishes For The Cloths Of Heaven by William Butler Yeats Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths, enwrought with golden and silver light, the blue and the dim and the dark cloths of night and light and the half-light, I would spread the cloths under your feet: but I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet; tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

The wild swans at Coole by William Butler Yeats THE trees are in their autumn beauty, the woodland paths are dry, under the October twilight the water mirrors a still sky; upon the brimming water among the stones are nine-and-fifty Swans. The nineteenth autumn has come upon me since I first made my count; I saw, before I had well finished, all suddenly mount and scatter wheeling in great broken rings upon their clamorous wings. I have looked upon those brilliant creatures, and now my heart is sore. All's changed since I, hearing at twilight, the first time on this shore, the bell-beat of their wings above my head, trod with a lighter tread. Unwearied still, lover by lover, they paddle in the cold companionable streams or climb the air; their hearts have not grown old; passion or conquest, wander where they will, attend upon them still. But now they drift on the still water, mysterious, beautiful; among what rushes will they build, by what lake's edge or pool delight men's eyes when I awake some day to find they have flown away?

When you are old by William Butler Yeats 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.

Nantucket by William Carlos Williams Flowers through the window lavender and yellow changed by white curtains – smell of cleanliness – sunshine of late afternoon – on the glass tray a glass pitcher, the tumbler turned down, by which a key is lying – and the immaculate white bed

This is just to say by William Carlos Williams I have eaten the plums that were in the icebox

and which you were probably saving for breakfast

Forgive me they were delicious so sweet and so cold

My mistress eyes are nothing like the sun by William Shakespeare My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun; coral is far more red than her lips' red; if snow be white, why then her breasts are dun; if hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head. I have seen roses damasked, red and white, but no such roses see I in her cheeks; and in some perfumes is there more delight than in the breath that from my mistress reeks. I love to hear her speak, yet well I know that music hath a far more pleasing sound; I grant I never saw a goddess go; my mistress when she walks treads on the ground. And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare as any she belied with false compare.

Shall I compare thee? By William Shakespeare Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate. Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, and summer's lease hath all too short a date. Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, and often is his gold complexion dimmed; and every fair from fair sometime declines, by chance, or nature's changing course, untrimmed; but thy eternal summer shall not fade, nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st, nor shall death brag thou wand'rest in his shade, when in eternal lines to Time thou grow'st. So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, so long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

Composed Upon Westminster Bridge by William Wordsworth Earth has not anything to show more fair: Dull would he be of soul who could pass by a sight so touching in its majesty: This City now doth like a garment wear the beauty of the morning; silent , bare, ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie open unto the fields, and to the sky, all bright and glittering in the smokeless air. Never did the sun more beautifully steep in his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill; ne'er saw I, never felt a calm so deep! The river glideth at his own sweet will: Dear God! the very houses seem asleep; and all that mighty heart is lying still!

I Wandered Lonely As A Cloud 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 be but gay, in such a jocund company! I gazedâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;and gazedâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;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.

Poems + Authors in Alphabetical Order 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27. 28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33. 34. 35. 36. 37. 38. 39. 40. 41. 42. 43. 44. 45. 46. 47. 48. 49.

A Dream Within A Dream by Edgar Allan Poe Alone by Edgar Allan Poe Romance by Edgar Allan Poe Song by Edgar Allan Poe I carry your heart with me by Edward Estlin Cummings I'm Nobody! Who are you? by Emily Dickinson Nobody knows this little Rose by Emily Dickinson There is another sky by Emily Dickinson Axe Handles by Gary Snyder As Soon as Fred Gets Out of Bed by Jack Prelutsky Be Glad Your Nose is on Your Face by Jack Prelutsky Last Night I Dreamed of Chickens by Jack Prelutsky As I grew older by Langston Hudges She Walks in Beauty by Lord Byron Men by Maya Angelou Still I Rise by Maya Angelou Touched by An Angel by Maya Angelou My Voice by Oscar Wilde To My Wife - With A Copy Of My Poems by Oscar Wilde If You Forget Me by Pablo Neruda In memory of my mother by Patrick Kavanagh Ambulances by Philip Larkin Stopping by woods on a snowy evening by Robert Frost The Road not taken by Robert Frost If by Rudyard Kiplin Follower by Seamus Heaney Mid-Term Break by Seamus Heany Mother of the groom by Seamus Heaney Base Details by Siegfried Sassoon Storm on the Island by Ted Hudges Wind by Ted Hudges As I Ponder’d in Silence by Walt Whitman One’s-Self I Sing by Walt Whitman Tich Miller by Wendy Cope Dulce et Decorum est by Wilfred Owen A poison tree by William Blake Love's Secret by William Blake The Garden of Love by William Blake A Song From 'The Player Queen' by William Butler Yeats He Wishes For The Cloths Of Heaven by William Butler Yeats The Stolen child by William Butler Yeats The wild swans at Coole by William Butler Yeats When you are old by William Butler Yeats Nantucket by William Carlos Williams This is just to say by William Carlos Williams My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun (Sonnet 130) by William Shakespeare Shall I compare thee? By William Shakespeare Composed Upon Westminster Bridge by William Wordsworth I Wandered Lonely As A Cloud by William Wordsworth

Poems in Alphabetical Order + Authors 1. 36. 39. 2. 22. 13. 32. 10. 9. 29. 11. 48. 35. 26. 40. 5. 49. 25. 20. 6. 21. 12. 37. 15. 27. 28. 46. 18. 44. 7. 33. 3. 47. 14. 4. 16. 23. 30. 38. 24. 41. 42. 8. 45. 34. 19. 17. 43. 31.

A Dream Within A Dream by Edgar Allan Poe A poison tree by William Blake A Song From 'The Player Queen' by William Butler Yeats Alone by Edgar Allan Poe Ambulances by Philip Larkin As I grew older by Langston Hudges As I Ponder’d in Silence by Walt Whitman As Soon as Fred Gets Out of Bed by Jack Prelutsky Axe Handles by Gary Snyder Base Details by Siegfried Sassoon Be Glad Your Nose is on Your Face by Jack Prelutsky Composed Upon Westminster Bridge by William Wordsworth Dulce et Decorum est by Wilfred Owen Follower by Seamus Heaney He Wishes For The Cloths Of Heaven by William Butler Yeats I carry your heart with me by E. E. Cummings I Wandered Lonely As A Cloud by William Wordsworth If by Rudyard Kiplin If You Forget Me by Pablo Neruda I'm Nobody! Who are you? by Emily Dickinson In memory of my mother by Patrick Kavanagh Last Night I Dreamed of Chickens by Jack Prelutsky Love's Secret by William Blake Men by Maya Angelou Mid-Term Break by Seamus Heany Mother of the groom by Seamus Heaney My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun (Sonnet 130) by William Shakespeare My Voice by Oscar Wilde Nantucket by William Carlos Williams Nobody knows this little Rose by Emily Dickinson One’s-Self I Sing by Walt Whitman Romance by Edgar Allan Poe Shall I compare thee? By William Shakespeare She Walks in Beauty by Lord Byron Song by Edgar Allan Poe Still I Rise by Maya Angelou Stopping by woods on a snowy evening by Robert Frost Storm on the Island by Ted Hudges The Garden of Love by William Blake The Road not taken by Robert Frost The Stolen child by William Butler Yeats The wild swans at Coole by William Butler Yeats There is another sky by Emily Dickinson This is just to say by William Carlos Williams Tich Miller by Wendy Cope To My Wife - With A Copy Of My Poems by Oscar Wilde Touched by An Angel by Maya Angelou When you are old by William Butler Yeats Wind by Ted Hudges

Visual Poems’ Credits: “They Say” by Kirpal Singh: http://www.behance.net/gallery/TYPOGRAPHY/4520325 “Fear” by Michael Rios: https://themarvelouslife.wordpress.com/tag/poetry/page/10/