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" The Hill We Climb " is a poem written by Amanda Gorman and recited by her at the inauguration of Joseph R. Biden Jr. on January 20, 2021. The poem was written in the weeks following the 2020 United States presidential election with significant passages written on the night of January 6, 2021, in response to the storming of the United States Capitol. Gorman was twenty-two years old when she recited the poem, making her the youngest inaugural poet ever. The poem was written to call for "unity and collaboration and togetherness" among the American people and emphasize the opportunity that the future holds. "The Hill We Climb" was widely praised for its message, phrasing, and delivery. Critics generally considered the recitation one of the highlights of the inauguration. Many felt that the poem represented a call for unity and would remain relevant beyond the inauguration. Gorman drew large amounts of attention, particularly on social media, after the poem's recitation and two upcoming books by Gorman topped best seller lists.

Yeah I'm from where dreamin' ain't allowed 'Specially when you're dreamin' aloud Enough to dream your self-esteem into clouds It takes tears, sweat, blood, 5 CCs 'Cause I know what a kid in apartment 5C see'd Heaven knows, all I had was hella hope Speed datin' with destiny, I couldn't tell her nope When I first saw stars, television was my telescope For me, somethin' that could see me free was a bar Threw diamonds in the sky that never came down, now that's a star My vision was big enough to get me out of the space I wanted to pass how far I see I wondered, could a kid from Mars see a kid from Marcy? For things that are seen are temperal The most beautiful things are invisible Roc Nation, indivisible American dream team Paper planes turned into the real thing You are whatever you say you are Turn any situation around Who. Are. You? God

Their footless dance Is of the beautiful liability of their nature. Their eyes are round, boldly convex, bright as a jewel, And merciless. They do not know Compassion, and if they did, We should not be worthy of it. They fly In air that glitters like fluent crystal And is hard as perfectly transparent iron, they cleave it With no effort. They cry In a tongue multitudinous, often like music. He slew them, at surprising distances, with his gun. Over a body held in his hand, his head was bowed low, But not in grief. He put them where they are, and there we see them: in our imagination. What is love? Our name for it is knowledge.

Nobody heard him, the dead man, But still he lay moaning: I was much further out than you thought And not waving but drowning. Poor chap, he always loved larking And now he’s dead It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way, They said. Oh, no no no, it was too cold always (Still the dead one lay moaning) I was much too far out all my life And not waving but drowning.

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) i fear no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) i want no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true) and it'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 the 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)

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 grieve 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.

I That is no country for old men. The young In one another's arms, birds in the trees, -Those dying generations-at their song, The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas, Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long Whatever is begotten, born, and dies. Caught in that sensual music all neglect Monuments of unageing intellect. II An aged man is but a paltry thing, A tattered coat upon a stick, unless Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing For every tatter in its mortal dress, Nor is there singing school but studying Monuments of its own magnificence; And therefore I have sailed the seas and come To the holy city of Byzantium. III O sages standing in God's holy fire As in the gold mosaic of a wall, Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre, And be the singing-masters of my soul. Consume my heart away; sick with desire And fastened to a dying animal It knows not what it is; and gather me Into the artifice of eternity. IV Once out of nature I shall never take My bodily form from any natural thing, But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make Of hammered gold and gold enamelling To keep a drowsy Emperor awake; Or set upon a golden bough to sing To lords and ladies of Byzantium Of what is past, or passing, or to come.

Nature's first green is gold, Her hardest hue to hold. Her early leaf's a flower; But only so an hour. Then leaf subsides to leaf. So Eden sank to grief, So dawn goes down to day. Nothing gold can stay.

Turning and turning in the widening gyre The falcon cannot hear the falconer; Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere The ceremony of innocence is drowned; The best lack all conviction, while the worst Are full of passionate intensity. Surely some revelation is at hand; Surely the Second Coming is at hand. The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand; A shape with lion body and the head of a man, A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun, Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds. The darkness drops again but now I know That twenty centuries of stony sleep Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle, And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

"In Flanders Fields" is a war poem in the form of a rondeau, written during the First World War by Canadian physician Lieutenant-Colonel John McCrae. He was inspired to write it on May 3, 1915, after presiding over the funeral of friend and fellow soldier Lieutenant Alexis Helmer, who died in the Second Battle of Ypres. According to legend, fellow soldiers retrieved the poem after McCrae, initially dissatisfied with his work, discarded it. "In Flanders Fields" was first published on December 8 of that year in the London magazine Punch. In Flanders fields the poppies blow Between the crosses, row on row, That mark our place; and in the sky The larks, still bravely singing, fly Scarce heard amid the guns below. We are the Dead. Short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved and were loved, and now we lie In Flanders fields. Take up our quarrel with the foe: To you from failing hands we throw The torch; be yours to hold it high. If ye break faith with us who die We shall not sleep, though poppies grow In Flanders fields.

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.

(Written on Expeditionary Force Leave, 1915) For the last time, maybe, upon the knoll I stand. The eve is golden, languid, sad. Day like a tragic actor plays his role To the last whispered word and falls gold-clad. I, too, take leave of all I ever had. They shall not say I went with heavy heart: Heavy I am, but soon I shall be free, I love them all, but oh I now depart A little sadly, strangely, fearfully, As one who goes to try a mystery. The bell is sounding down in Dedham vale: Be still, O bell: too often standing here When all the air was tremulous, fine and pale, Thy golden note so calm, so still, so clear, Out of my stony heart has struck a tear. And now tears are not mine. I have release From all the former and the later pain, Like the mid sea I rock in boundless peace Soothed by the charity of the deep-sea rain.... Calm rain! Calm sea! Calm found, long sought in vain! O bronzen pines, evening of gold and blue, Steep mellow slope, brimmed twilit pools below, Hushed trees, still vale dissolving in the dew, Farewell. Farewell. There is no more to do. We have been happy. Happy now I go.

WHEN I heard the learn'd astronomer; When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before me; When I was shown the charts and the diagrams, to add, divide, and measure them; When I, sitting, heard the astronomer, where he lectured with much applause in the lecture-room, How soon, unaccountable, I became tired and sick; Till rising and gliding out, I wander'd off by myself, In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time, Look'd up in perfect silence at the stars.

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.

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.

As through the world we take our way How oftentimes we hear The praises sung of wealthy men, Of prince, and duke and peer. The poets tell us of their fame, They are lauded o'er the land, But you very seldom hear them sing Of the honest working man. They praise the wealthy banker, The purse-proud millionaire; Their pockets have golden lining, So they're praised from everywhere. Let others sing the praises Of those darlings of the land, But mine shall be a nobler theme- The honest working man. Let monarchs prize their glittering crowns And all their royal host, Let lordlings brag of their blue blood- They have nothing else to boast. But what is all their rank, compared To our hero, true and grand, One of fair Nature's noblemen- The honest working man. His hands may be both rough and hard, His clothes and speech be plain, But you will find his manly heart Without a spot or stain. And there are some whose clothes are fine. Whose hands are soft and white, But the secret records of their lives Could never bear the light. May Heaven's choicest blessings fall Upon that hero's head, Who bravely toils throughout each day To earn his loved ones bread. You'll find no monarch who can show A record half so grand. God bless great labor's true-born knight- The honest working man. So now of Fortune's favored ones, Henceforth let less be said, And more be spoken of the man Who toils for daily bread. God bless each hardy son of toil That labors in the land. Let us give three cheers with right good will For the honest working man.

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.

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.