Explore Poetry

There's amnesia in a hang knot, And comfort in the ax, But the simple way of poison will make your nerves relax. There's surcease in a gunshot, And sleep that comes from racks, But a handy draft of poison avoids the harshest tax. You find rest upon the hot squat, Or gas can give you pax, But the closest corner chemist has peace in packaged stacks. There's refuge in the church lot When you tire of facing facts, And the smoothest route is poison prescribed by kindly quacks. Chorus — With an ugh! and a groan, and a kick of the heels, Death comes quiet, or it comes with squeals — But the pleasantest place to find your end Is a cup of cheer from the hand of a friend.

Be honest and true, boys! Whatever you do, boys, Let this be your motto through life. Both now and forever, Be this your endeavor, When wrong with the right is at strife. The best and the truest, Alas! are the fewest; But be one of these if you can. In duty ne'er fail; you Will find 'twill avail you, And bring its reward when a man. Don't think life plain sailing; There's danger of failing, Though bright seem the future to be; But honor and labor, And truth to your neighbor, Will bear you safe over life's sea. Then up and be doing, Right only pursuing, And take your fair part in the strife. Be honest and true, boys, Whatever you do, boys, Let this be your motto through life!

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done; The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won; The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring: But O heart! heart! heart! O the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead. O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills; For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding; For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning; Here Captain! dear father! This arm beneath your head; It is some dream that on the deck, You've fallen cold and dead. My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still; My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will; The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed and done; From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won; Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells! But I, with mournful tread, Walk the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.

AUD MULLER, on a summer's day, Raked the meadows sweet with hay. Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth Of simple beauty and rustic health. Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee The mock-bird echoed from his tree. But, when she glanced to the far-off town, White from its hill-slope looking down, The sweet song died, and a vague unrest And a nameless longing filled her breast-- A wish, that she hardly dared to own, For something better than she had known. The Judge rode slowly down the lane, Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane. He drew his bridle in the shade Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid, And ask a draught from the spring that flowed Through the meadow across the road. She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up, And filled for him her small tin cup, And blushed as she gave it, looking down On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown. "Thanks!" said the Judge, "a sweeter draught From a fairer hand was never quaffed." He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees, Of the singing birds and the humming bees; Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether The cloud in the west would bring foul weather. And Maud forgot her briar-torn gown, And her graceful ankles bare and brown; And listened, while a pleasant surprise Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes. At last, like one who for delay Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away, Maud Muller looked and sighed: "Ah, me! That I the Judge's bride might be! "He would dress me up in silks so fine, And praise and toast me at his wine. "My father should wear a broadcloth coat; My brother should sail a painted boat. "I'd dress my mother so grand and gay, And the baby should have a new toy each day. "And I'd feed the hungry and clothe the poor, And all should bless me who left our door." The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill, And saw Maud Muller standing still. "A form more fair, a face more sweet, Ne'er hath it been my lot to meet. "And her modest answer and graceful air Show her wise and good as she is fair. "Would she were mine, and I to-day, Like her, a harvester of hay: "No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs, Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues, "But low of cattle, and song of birds, And health, and quiet, and loving words." But he thought of his sisters, proud and cold, And his mother, vain of her rank and gold. So, closing his heart, the Judge rode on, And Maud was left in the field alone. But the lawyers smiled that afternoon, When he hummed in court an old love-tune; And the young girl mused beside the well, Till the rain on the unraked clover fell. He wedded a wife of richest dower, Who lived for fashion, as he for power. Yet oft, in his marble hearth's bright glow, He watched a picture come and go: And sweet Maud Muller's hazel eyes Looked out in their innocent surprise. Oft when the wine in his glass was red, He longed for the wayside well instead; And closed his eyes on his garnished rooms, To dream of meadows and clover-blooms. And the proud man sighed, with a secret pain, "Ah, that I were free again! "Free as when I rode that day, Where the barefoot maiden raked her hay." She wedded a man unlearned and poor, And many children played round her door. But care and sorrow, and child-birth pain, Left their traces on heart and brain. And oft, when the summer sun shone hot On the new-mown hay in the meadow lot, And she heard the little spring brook fall Over the roadside, through the wall, In the shade of the apple-tree again She saw a rider draw his rein, And, gazing down with timid grace, She felt his pleased eyes read her face. Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls Stretched away into stately halls; The weary wheel to a spinnet turned, The tallow candle an astral burned; And for him who sat by the chimney lug, Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe and mug, A manly form at her side she saw, And joy was duty and love was law. Then she took up her burden of life again, Saying only, "It might have been." Alas for maiden, alas for Judge, For rich repiner and household drudge! Go

I met a traveller from an antique land Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand, Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command Tell that its sculptor well those passions read Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things, The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed. And on the pedestal these words appear: "My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!" Nothing beside remains. Round the decay Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare The lone and level sands stretch far away.

'Tis a lesson you should heed, If at first you don't succeed, Try, try again; Then your courage should appear, For if you will persevere, You will conquer, never fear Try, try again; Once or twice, though you should fail, If you would at last prevail, Try, try again; If we strive, 'tis no disgrace Though we do not win the race; What should you do in the case? Try, try again If you find your task is hard, Time will bring you your reward, Try, try again All that other folks can do, Why, with patience, should not you? Only keep this rule in view: Try, try again.

1 Afoot and light-hearted I take to the open road, Healthy, free, the world before me, The long brown path before me leading wherever I choose. Henceforth I ask not good-fortune, I myself am good-fortune, Henceforth I whimper no more, postpone no more, need nothing, Done with indoor complaints, libraries, querulous criticisms, Strong and content I travel the open road. The earth, that is sufficient, I do not want the constellations any nearer, I know they are very well where they are, I know they suffice for those who belong to them. (Still here I carry my old delicious burdens, I carry them, men and women, I carry them with me wherever I go, I swear it is impossible for me to get rid of them, I am fill'd with them, and I will fill them in return.) 2 You road I enter upon and look around, I believe you are not all that is here, I believe that much unseen is also here. Here the profound lesson of reception, nor preference nor denial, The black with his woolly head, the felon, the diseas'd, the illiterate person, are not denied; The birth, the hasting after the physician, the beggar's tramp, the drunkard's stagger, the laughing party of mechanics, The escaped youth, the rich person's carriage, the fop, the eloping couple, The early market-man, the hearse, the moving of furniture into the town, the return back from the town, They pass, I also pass, any thing passes, none can be interdicted, None but are accepted, none but shall be dear to me. 3 You air that serves me with breath to speak! You objects that call from diffusion my meanings and give them shape! You light that wraps me and all things in delicate equable showers! You paths worn in the irregular hollows by the roadsides! I believe you are latent with unseen existences, you are so dear to me. You flagg'd walks of the cities! you strong curbs at the edges! You ferries! you planks and posts of wharves! you timber-lined sides! you distant ships! You rows of houses! you window-pierc'd facades! you roofs! You porches and entrances! you copings and iron guards! You windows whose transparent shells might expose so much! You doors and ascending steps! you arches! You gray stones of interminable pavements! you trodden crossings! From all that has touch'd you I believe you have imparted to yourselves, and now would impart the same secretly to me, From the living and the dead you have peopled your impassive surfaces, and the spirits thereof would be evident and amicable with me. 4 The earth expanding right hand and left hand, The picture alive, every part in its best light, The music falling in where it is wanted, and stopping where it is not wanted, The cheerful voice of the public road, the gay fresh sentiment of the road. O highway I travel, do you say to me Do not leave me? Do you say Venture not-if you leave me you are lost? Do you say I am already prepared, I am well-beaten and undenied, adhere to me? O public road, I say back I am not afraid to leave you, yet I love you, You express me better than I can express myself, You shall be more to me than my poem. I think heroic deeds were all conceiv'd in the open air, and all free poems also, I think I could stop here myself and do miracles, I think whatever I shall meet on the road I shall like, and whoever beholds me shall like me, I think whoever I see must be happy. 5 From this hour I ordain myself loos'd of limits and imaginary lines, Going where I list, my own master total and absolute, Listening to others, considering well what they say, Pausing, searching, receiving, contemplating, Gently,but with undeniable will, divesting myself of the holds that would hold me. I inhale great draughts of space, The east and the west are mine, and the north and the south are mine. I am larger, better than I thought, I did not know I held so much goodness. All seems beautiful to me, I can repeat over to men and women You have done such good to me I would do the same to you, I will recruit for myself and you as I go, I will scatter myself a

ORIGINAL Wer reitet so spat durch Nacht und Wind? Es ist der Vater mit seinem Kind; Er hat den Knaben wohl in dem Arm, Er faßt ihn sicher, er halt ihn warm. "Mein Sohn, was birgst du so bang dein Gesicht?" - "Siehst, Vater, du den Erlkonig nicht? Den Erlenkonig mit Kron und Schweif?" - "Mein Sohn, es ist ein Nebelstreif." "Du liebes Kind, komm, geh mit mir! Gar schone Spiele spiel' ich mit dir; Manch' bunte Blumen sind an dem Strand, Meine Mutter hat manch gulden Gewand." - "Mein Vater, mein Vater, und horest du nicht, Was Erlenkonig mir leise verspricht?" - "Sei ruhig, bleibe ruhig, mein Kind; In durren Blattern sauselt der Wind." - "Willst, feiner Knabe, du mit mir gehn? Meine Tochter sollen dich warten schon; Meine Tochter fuhren den nachtlichen Reihn, Und wiegen und tanzen und singen dich ein." - "Mein Vater, mein Vater, und siehst du nicht dort Erlkonigs Tochter am dustern Ort?" - "Mein Sohn, mein Sohn, ich seh' es genau: Es scheinen die alten Weiden so grau. -" "Ich liebe dich, mich reizt deine schone Gestalt; Und bist du nicht willig, so brauch' ich Gewalt." - "Mein Vater, mein Vater, jetzt faßt er mich an! Erlkonig hat mir ein Leids getan!" - Dem Vater grauset's, er reitet geschwind, Er halt in Armen das achzende Kind, Erreicht den Hof mit Muh' und Not; In seinen Armen das Kind war tot. LITERAL ENGLISH TRANSLATION Who rides, so late, through night and wind? It is the father with his child. He has the boy well in his arm He holds him safely, he keeps him warm. "My son, why do you hide your face in fear?" "Father, do you not see the Elfking? The Elfking with crown and cape?" "My son, it's a streak of fog." "You dear child, come, go with me! (Very) beautiful games I play with you; many a colourful flower is on the beach, My mother has many a golden robe." "My father, my father, and hearest you not, What the Elfking quietly promises me?" "Be calm, stay calm, my child; Through scrawny leaves the wind is sighing." "Do you, fine boy, want to go with me? My daughters shall wait on you finely; My daughters lead the nightly dance, And rock and dance and sing to bring you in." "My father, my father, and don't you see there The Elfking's daughters in the gloomy place?" "My son, my son, I see it clearly: There shimmer the old willows so grey." "I love you, your beautiful form entices me; And if you're not willing, then I will use force." "My father, my father, he's touching me now! The Elfking has done me harm!" It horrifies the father; he swiftly rides on, He holds the moaning child in his arms, Reaches the farm with great difficulty; In his arms, the child was dead.

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 fill'd? 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.

Homework! Oh, Homework! I hate you! You stink! I wish I could wash you away in the sink, if only a bomb would explode you to bits. Homework! Oh, homework! You're giving me fits. I'd rather take baths with a man-eating shark, or wrestle a lion alone in the dark, eat spinach and liver, pet ten porcupines, than tackle the homework, my teacher assigns. Homework! Oh, homework! you're last on my list, I simple can't see why you even exist, if you just disappeared it would tickle me pink. Homework! Oh, homework! I hate you! You stink!

It went many years, But at last came a knock, And I thought of the door With no lock to lock. I blew out the light, I tip-toed the floor, And raised both hands In prayer to the door. But the knock came again My window was wide; I climbed on the sill And descended outside. Back over the sill I bade a "Come in" To whoever the knock At the door may have been. So at a knock I emptied my cage To hide in the world And alter with age.

Beowulf is the conventional title of an Old English heroic epic poem consisting of 3182 alliterative long lines, set in Scandinavia, commonly cited as one of the most important works of Anglo-Saxon literature.

There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, The earth, and every common sight, To me did seem Apparelled in celestial light, The glory and the freshness of a dream. It is not now as it hath been of yore;- Turn wheresoe'er I may, By night or day. The things which I have seen I now can see no more. The Rainbow comes and goes, And lovely is the Rose, The Moon doth with delight Look round her when the heavens are bare, Waters on a starry night Are beautiful and fair; The sunshine is a glorious birth; But yet I know, where'er I go, That there hath past away a glory from the earth. Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song, And while the young lambs bound As to the tabor's sound, To me alone there came a thought of grief: A timely utterance gave that thought relief, And I again am strong: The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep; No more shall grief of mine the season wrong; I hear the Echoes through the mountains throng, The Winds come to me from the fields of sleep, And all the earth is gay; Land and sea Give themselves up to jollity, And with the heart of May Doth every Beast keep holiday;- Thou Child of Joy, Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy Shepherd-boy. Ye blessed creatures, I have heard the call Ye to each other make; I see The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee; My heart is at your festival, My head hath its coronal, The fulness of your bliss, I feel-I feel it all. Oh evil day! if I were sullen While Earth herself is adorning, This sweet May-morning, And the Children are culling On every side, In a thousand valleys far and wide, Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm, And the Babe leaps up on his Mother's arm:- I hear, I hear, with joy I hear! -But there's a Tree, of many, one, A single field which I have looked upon, Both of them speak of something that is gone; The Pansy at my feet Doth the same tale repeat: Whither is fled the visionary gleam? Where is it now, the glory and the dream? Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting: The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, Hath had elsewhere its setting, And cometh from afar: Not in entire forgetfulness, And not in utter nakedness, But trailing clouds of glory do we come From God, who is our home: Heaven lies about us in our infancy! Shades of the prison-house begin to close Upon the growing Boy, But he beholds the light, and whence it flows, He sees it in his joy; The Youth, who daily farther from the east Must travel, still is Nature's Priest, And by the vision splendid Is on his way attended; At length the Man perceives it die away, And fade into the light of common day. Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own; Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, And, even with something of a Mother's mind, And no unworthy aim, The homely Nurse doth all she can To make her Foster-child, her Inmate Man, Forget the glories he hath known, And that imperial palace whence he came. Behold the Child among his new-born blisses, A six years' Darling of a pigmy size! See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies, Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses, With light upon him from his father's eyes! See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, Some fragment from his dream of human life, Shaped by himself with newly-learn{e}d art A wedding or a festival, A mourning or a funeral; And this hath now his heart, And unto this he frames his song: Then will he fit his tongue To dialogues of business, love, or strife; But it will not be long Ere this be thrown aside, And with new joy and pride The little Actor cons another part; Filling from time to time his "humorous stage" With all the Persons, down to palsied Age, That Life brings with her in her equipage; As if his whole vocation Were endless imitation. Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie Thy Soul's immensity; Thou best Philosopher, who yet dost keep Thy heritage, thou Eye among the blind, That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep, Haunted for ever by the eternal mind,- Mighty Prophet! See

Often thought to be titled, "He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven" 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 fog comes on little cat feet. It sits looking over harbor and city on silent haunches 5 and then moves on.

You've got another love and I know it Someone who adores you just like me Hanging on your words like they were gold Thinking that she understands your soul Poor Girl just like me. You're breaking another heart and I know it And there's nothing I can do If I try to tell her what I know She'll misunderstand and make me go Poor Girl just like me. You're going to leave her too and I know it She'll never know what made you go She'll cry and wonder what went wrong Then she'll begin to sing this song Poor Girl just like me.