Because I could not stop for Death (479) Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening By Robert Frost. Emily Dickinson,

Transcription

1 Because I could not stop for Death (479) Emily Dickinson, Because I could not stop for Death He kindly stopped for me The Carriage held but just Ourselves And Immortality. We slowly drove He knew no haste And I had put away My labor and my leisure too, For His Civility We passed the School, where Children strove At Recess in the Ring We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain We passed the Setting Sun Or rather He passed us The Dews drew quivering and chill For only Gossamer, my Gown My Tippet only Tulle 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. We paused before a House that seemed A Swelling of the Ground The Roof was scarcely visible The Cornice in the Ground Since then tis Centuries and yet Feels shorter than the Day I first surmised the Horses Heads Were toward Eternity

2 My Papa s Waltz By Theodore Roethke The whiskey on your breath Could make a small boy dizzy; But I hung on like death: Such waltzing was not easy. We romped until the pans Slid from the kitchen shelf; My mother s countenance Could not unfrown itself. The hand that held my wrist Was battered on one knuckle; At every step you missed My right ear scraped a buckle. You beat time on my head With a palm caked hard by dirt, Then waltzed me off to bed Still clinging to your shirt. To a Daughter Leaving Home When I taught you at eight to ride a bicycle, loping along beside you as you wobbled away on two round wheels, my own mouth rounding in surprise when you pulled ahead down the curved path of the park, I kept waiting for the thud of your crash as I sprinted to catch up, while you grew smaller, more breakable with distance, pumping, pumping for your life, screaming with laughter, the hair flapping behind you like a handkerchief waving goodbye. Linda Pastan

3 W. H. Auden Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone, Silence the pianos and with muffled drum Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come. Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead, Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves, Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves. He was my North, my South, my East and West, My working week and my Sunday rest, My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong. The stars are not wanted now: put out every one; Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun; Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood. For nothing now can ever come to any good. Do not go gentle into that good night Dylan Thomas, Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night. Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night. Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

4 O Captain! My Captain! Walt Whitman 1 O CAPTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip is done; The ship has weather d 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! 5 O the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead. 2 O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; 10 Rise up for you the flag is flung for you the bugle trills; For you bouquets and ribbon d 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; 15 It is some dream that on the deck, You ve fallen cold and dead. 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. After great pain, a formal feeling comes (372) By Emily Dickinson After great pain, a formal feeling comes The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs The stiff Heart questions was it He, that bore, And Yesterday, or Centuries before? The Feet, mechanical, go round A Wooden way Of Ground, or Air, or Ought Regardless grown, A Quartz contentment, like a stone This is the Hour of Lead Remembered, if outlived, As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow First Chill then Stupor then the letting go 20 3 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 anchor d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;

5 Mother to Son By Langston Hughes Well, son, I ll tell you: Life for me ain t been no crystal stair. It s had tacks in it, And splinters, And boards torn up, And places with no carpet on the floor Bare. But all the time I se been a-climbin on, And reachin landin s, And turnin corners, And sometimes goin in the dark Where there ain t been no light. So boy, don t you turn back. Don t you set down on the steps Cause you finds it s kinder hard. Don t you fall now For I se still goin, honey, I se still climbin, And life for me ain t been no crystal stair. Ballad of Birmingham Dudley Randall (On the bombing of a church in Birmingham, Alabama, 1963) Mother dear, may I go downtown Instead of out to play, And march the streets of Birmingham In a Freedom March today? No, baby, no, you may not go, For the dogs are fierce and wild, And clubs and hoses, guns and jails Aren t good for a little child. But, mother, I won t be alone. Other children will go with me, And march the streets of Birmingham To make our country free. No, baby, no, you may not go, For I fear those guns will fire. But you may go to church instead And sing in the children s choir. She has combed and brushed her night-dark hair, And bathed rose petal sweet, And drawn white gloves on her small brown hands, And white shoes on her feet. The mother smiled to know her child Was in the sacred place, But that smile was the last smile To come upon her face. For when she heard the explosion, Her eyes grew wet and wild. She raced through the streets of Birmingham Calling for her child. She clawed through bits of glass and brick, Then lifted out a shoe. O, here s the shoe my baby wore, But, baby, where are you?

6 A Red, Red Rose By Robert Burns O my Luve is like a red, red rose That s newly sprung in June; O my Luve is like the melody That s sweetly played in tune. So fair art thou, my bonnie lass, So deep in luve am I; And I will luve thee still, my dear, Till a the seas gang dry. Till a the seas gang dry, my dear, And the rocks melt wi the sun; I will love thee still, my dear, While the sands o life shall run. And fare thee weel, my only luve! And fare thee weel awhile! And I will come again, my luve, Though it were ten thousand mile. My mistress eyes are nothing like the sun (Sonnet 130) 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.

7 We Real Cool Gwendolyn Brooks, We real cool. We Left school. We Lurk late. We Strike straight. We Sing sin. We Thin gin. We Jazz June. We Die soon. THE POOL PLAYERS. SEVEN AT THE GOLDEN SHOVEL. The Road Not Taken 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.