Shakespeare's Expostulation by Arthur Conan Doyle

    Masters, I sleep not quiet in my grave,
    There where they laid me, by the Avon shore,
    In that some crazy wights have set it forth
    By arguments most false and fanciful,
    Analogy and far-drawn inference,
    That Francis Bacon, Earl of Verulam
    (A man whom I remember in old days,
    A learned judge with sly adhesive palms,
    To which the suitor's gold was wont to stick) —
    That this same Verulam had writ the plays
    Which were the fancies of my frolic brain.
    What can they urge to dispossess the crown
    Which all my comrades and the whole loud world
    Did in my lifetime lay upon my brow?
    Look straitly at these arguments and see
    How witless and how fondly slight they be.
    Imprimis, they have urged that, being born
    In the mean compass of a paltry town,
    I could not in my youth have trimmed my mind
    To such an eagle pitch, but must be found,
    Like the hedge sparrow, somewhere near the ground.
    Bethink you, sirs, that though I was denied
    The learning which in colleges is found,
    Yet may a hungry brain still find its fo
    Wherever books may lie or men may be;
    And though perchance by Isis or by Cam
    The meditative, philosophic plant
    May best luxuriate; yet some would say
    That in the task of limning mortal life
    A fitter preparation might be made
    Beside the banks of Thames. And then again,
    If I be suspect, in that I was not
    A fellow of a college, how, I pray,
    Will Jonson pass, or Marlowe, or the rest,
    Whose measured verse treads with as proud a gait
    As that which was my own? Whence did they suck
    This honey that they stored? Can you recite
    The vantages which each of these has had
    And I had not? Or is the argument
    That my Lord Verulam hath written all,
    And covers in his wide-embracing self
    The stolen fame of twenty smaller men?
    You prate about my learning. I would urge
    My want of learning rather as a proof
    That I am still myself. Have I not traced
    A seaboard to Bohemia, and made
    The cannons roar a whole wide century
    Before the first was forged? Think you, then,
    That he, the ever-learned Verulam,
    Would have erred thus? So may my very faults
    In their gross falseness prove that I am true,
    And by that falseness gender truth in you.
    And what is left? They say that they have found
    A script, wherein the writer tells my Lord
    He is a secret poet. True enough!
    But surely now that secret is o'er past.
    Have you not read his poems? Know you not
    That in our day a learned chancellor
    Might better far dispense unjustest law
    Than be suspect of such frivolity
    As lies in verse? Therefore his poetry
    Was secret. Now that he is gone
    'Tis so no longer. You may read his verse,
    And judge if mine be better or be worse:
    Read and pronounce! The meed of praise is thine;
    But still let his be his and mine be mine.
    I say no more; but how can you for- swear
    Outspoken Jonson, he who knew me well;
    So, too, the epitaph which still you read?
    Think you they faced my sepulchre with lies —
    Gross lies, so evident and palpable
    That every townsman must have wot of it,
    And not a worshipper within the church
    But must have smiled to see the marbled fraud?
    Surely this touches you? But if by chance
    My reasoning still leaves you obdurate,
    I'll lay one final plea. I pray you look
    On my presentment, as it reaches you.
    My features shall be sponsors for my fame;
    My brow shall speak when Shakespeare's voice is dumb,
    And be his warrant in an age to come.

I Felt a Funeral in My Brain by Emily Dickinson

    I felt a funeral in my brain,
    And mourners, to and fro,
    Kept treading, treading, till it seemed
    That sense was breaking through.

    And when they all were seated,
    A service like a drum
    Kept beating, beating, till I thought
    My mind was going numb.

    And then I heard them lift a box,
    And creak across my soul
    With those same boots of lead, again.
    Then space began to toll

    As all the heavens were a bell,
    And Being but an ear,
    And I and silence some strange race,
    Wrecked, solitary, here.

I Taste a Liquor Never Brewed by Emily Dickinson

    I taste a liquor never brewed,
    From tankards scooped in pearl;
    Not all the vats upon the Rhine
    Yield such an alcohol!

    Inebriate of air am I,
    And debauchee of dew,
    Reeling, through endless summer days,
    From inns of molten blue.

    When landlords turn the drunken bee
    Out of the foxglove's door,
    When butterflies renounce their drams,
    I shall but drink the more!

    Till seraphs swing their snowy hats,
    And saints to windows run,
    To see the little tippler
    Leaning against the sun!

If I Can Stop One Heart From Breaking by Emily Dickinson

If I can stop one heart from breaking,
I shall not live in vain;
If I can ease one life the aching,
Or cool one pain,
Or help one fainting robin
Unto his nest again,
I shall not live in vain.

His Sweetheart by Isabella Valancy Crawford

Sylvia's lattices were dark–
  Roses made them narrow.
In the dawn there came a Spark,
  Armèd with an arrow:
Blithe he burst by dewy spray,
  Winged by bud and blossom,
All undaunted urged his way
  Straight to Sylvia's bosom.
'Sylvia! Sylvia! Sylvia!' he
  Like a bee kept humming,
'Wake, my sweeting; waken thee,
  For thy Soldier's coming!'

Sylvia sleeping in the dawn,
  Dreams that Cupid's trill is
Roses singing on the lawn,
  Courting crested lilies.
Sylvia smiles and Sylvia sleeps,
  Sylvia weeps and slumbers;
Cupid to her pink ear creeps,
  Pipes his pretty numbers.
Sylvia dreams that bugles play,
  Hears a martial drumming;
Sylvia springs to meet the day
  With her Soldier coming.

Happy Sylvia, on thee wait
  All the gracious graces!
Venus mild her cestus plait
  Round thy lawns and laces!
Flora fling a flower most fair,
  Hope a rainbow lend thee!
All the nymphs to Cupid dear
  On this day befriend thee!
'Sylvia! Sylvia! Sylvia!' hear
  How he keeps a-humming,
Laughing in her jewelled ear,
  'Sweet, thy Soldier's coming!'

His Wife and Baby by Isabella Valancy Crawford

In the lone place of the leaves,
Where they touch the hanging eaves,
There sprang a spray of joyous song that sounded sweet and sturdy;
    And the baby in the bed
    Raised the shining of his head,
And pulled the mother's lids apart to wake and watch the birdie.
    She kissed lip-dimples sweet,
    The red soles of his feet,
The waving palms that patted hers as wind-blown blossoms wander;
    He twined her tresses silk
    Round his neck as white as milk–
'Now, baby, say what birdie sings upon his green spray yonder.'
    'He sings a plenty things–
    Just watch him wash his wings!
He says Papa will march to-day with drums home through the city.
    Here, birdie, here's my cup.
    You drink the milk all up;
I'll kiss you, birdie, now you're washed like baby clean and pretty.'
    She rose, she sought the skies
    With the twin joys of her eyes;
She sent the strong dove of her soul up through the dawning's glory;
    She kissed upon her hand
    The glowing golden band
That bound the fine scroll of her life and clasped her simple story.

His Mother by Isabella Valancy Crawford

In the first dawn she lifted from her bed
The holy silver of her noble head,
And listened, listened, listened for his tread.
'Too soon, too soon!' she murmured, 'Yet I'll keep
My vigil longer– thou, O tender Sleep,
Art but the joy of those who wake and weep!
'Joy's self hath keen, wide eyes. O flesh of mine,
And mine own blood and bone, the very wine
Of my aged heart, I see thy dear eyes shine!
'I hear thy tread; thy light, loved footsteps run
Along the way, eager for that 'Well done!'
We'll weep and kiss to thee, my soldier son!
'Blest mother I– he lives! Yet had he died
Blest were I still, – I sent him on the tide
Of my full heart to save his nation's pride!'
'O God, if that I tremble so to-day,
Bowed with such blessings that I cannot pray
By speech– a mother prays, dear Lord, alway
'In some far fibre of her trembling mind!
I'll up– I thought I heard a bugle bind
Its silver with the silver of the wind.'

Songs for the Soldiers by Isabella Valancy Crawford

If songs be sung let minstrels strike their harps
To large and joyous strains, all thunder-winged
To beat along vast shores. Ay, let their notes
Wild into eagles soaring toward the sun,
And voiced like bugles bursting through the dawn
When armies leap to life! Give them such breasts
As hold immortal fires, and they shall fly,
Swept with our little sphere through all the change
That waits a whirling world.
                 Joy's an immortal;
She hath a fiery fibre in her flesh
That will not droop or die; so let her chant
The pæans of the dead, where holy Grief
Hath, trembling, thrust the feeble mist aside
That veils her dead, and in the wondrous clasp
Of re-possession ceases to be Grief.
Joy's ample voice shall still roll over all,
And chronicle the heroes to young hearts
Who knew them not.....
                  There's glory on the sword
That keeps its scabbard-sleep, unless the foe
Beat at the wall, then freely leaps to light
And thrusts to keep the sacred towers of Home
And the dear lines that map the nation out upon the world.

The Rose by Isabella Valancy Crawford

The Rose was given to man for this:
   He, sudden seeing it in later years,
Should swift remember Love's first lingering kiss
   And Grief's last lingering tears;
Or, being blind, should feel its yearning soul
   Knit all its piercing perfume round his own,
Till he should see on memory's ample scroll
   All roses he had known;
Or, being hard, perchance his finger-tips
   Careless might touch the satin of its cup,
And he should feel a dead babe's budding lips
   To his lips lifted up;
Or, being deaf and smitten with its star,
   Should, on a sudden, almost hear a lark
Rush singing up–the nightingale afar
   Sing through the dew-bright dark;
Or, sorrow-lost in paths that round and round
   Circle old graves, its keen and vital breath
Should call to him within the yew's bleak bound
   Of Life, and not of Death.

The Rime of the Ancient Mariner by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

PART I

    It is an ancient Mariner,
    And he stoppeth one of three.
    ‘By thy long grey beard and glittering eye,
    Now wherefore stopp’st thou me?

    The Bridegroom’s doors are opened wide,
    And I am next of kin;
    The guests are met, the feast is set:
    May’st hear the merry din.’

    He holds him with his skinny hand,
    ‘There was a ship,’ quoth he.
    ‘Hold off! unhand me, grey-beard loon!’
    Eftsoons his hand dropt he.

    He holds him with his glittering eye,
    The Wedding-Guest stood still,
    And listens like a three years child:
    The Mariner hath his will.

    The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone:
    He cannot chuse but hear;
    And thus spake on that ancient man,
    The bright-eyed Mariner.

    ‘The ship was cheered, the harbour cleared,
    Merrily did we drop
    Below the kirk, ’below the hill,
    Below the lighthouse top.

    The Sun came up upon the left,
    Out of the sea came he!
    And he shone bright, and on the right
    Went down into the sea.

    Higher and higher every day,
    Till over the mast at noon’
    The Wedding-Guest here beat his breast,
    For he heard the loud bassoon.

    The bride hath paced into the hall,
    Red as a rose is she;
    Nodding their heads before her goes
    The merry minstrelsy.

    The Wedding-Guest he beat his breast,
    Yet he cannot chuse but hear;
    And thus spake on that ancient man,
    The bright-eyed Mariner.

    ‘And now the STORM-BLAST Came, and he
    Was tyrannous and strong;
    He struck with his o’ertaking wings,
    And chased us south along.

    With sloping masts and dipping prow,
    As who pursued with yell and blow
    Still treads the shadow of his foe,
    And forward bends his head,
    The ship drove fast, loud roared the blast,
    And southward aye we fled.

    And now there came both mist and snow,
    And it grew wondrous cold:
    And ice, mast-high, came floating by,
    As green as emerald.

    And through the drifts the snowy clifts
    Did send a dismal sheen:
    Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken,
    The ice was all between.

    The ice was here, the ice was there,
    The ice was all around:
    It cracked and growled, and roared and howled,
    Like noises in a swound!

    At length did cross an Albatross,
    Thorough the fog it came;
    As if it had been a Christian soul,
    We hailed it in God’s name.

    It ate the food it ne’er had eat,
    And round and round it flew.
    The ice did split with a thunder-fit;
    The helmsman steered us through!

    And a good south wind sprung up behind;
    The Albatross did follow,
    And every day, for food or play,
    Came to the mariner’s hollo!

    In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud,
    It perched for vespers nine;
    Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white,
    Glimmered the white moon-shine.’

    ‘God save thee, ancient Mariner!
    From the fiends, that plague thee thus!
    Why look’st thou so?’ With my cross-bow
    I shot the ALBATROSS.

    PART II

    The Sun now rose upon the right:
    Out of the sea came he,
    Still hid in mist, and on the left
    Went down into the sea.

    And the good south wind still blew behind,
    But no sweet bird did follow,
    Nor any day for food or play
    Came to the mariners’ hollo!

    And I had done an hellish thing,
    And it would work ’em woe:
    For all averred, I had killed the bird
    That made the breeze to blow.
    Ah wretch! said they, the bird to slay,
    That made the breeze to blow!

    Nor dim nor red, like God’s own head,
    The glorious Sun uprist:
    Then all averred, I had killed the bird
    That brought the fog and mist.
    ’Twas right, said they, such birds to slay,
    That bring the fog and mist.

    The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew,
    The furrow followed free;
    We were the first that ever burst
    Into that silent sea.

    Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down,
    ’Twas sad as sad could be;
    And we did speak only to break
    The silence of the sea!

    All in a hot and copper sky,
    The bloody Sun, at noon,
    Right up above the mast did stand,
    No bigger than the Moon.

    Day after day, day after day,
    We stuck, nor breath nor motion;
    As idle as a painted ship
    Upon a painted ocean.

    Water, water, every where,
    And all the boards did shrink;
    Water, water, every where,
    Nor any drop to drink.

    The very deep did rot: O Christ!
    That ever this should be!
    Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs
    Upon the slimy sea.

    About, about, in reel and rout
    The death-fires danced at night;
    The water, like a witch’s oils,
    Burnt green, and blue and white.

    And some in dreams assured were
    Of the Spirit that plagued us so,
    Nine fathom deep he had followed us
    From the land of mist and snow.

    And every tongue, through utter drought,
    Was withered at the root;
    We could not speak, no more than if
    We had been choked with soot.

    Ah! well a-day! what evil looks
    Had I from old and young!
    Instead of the cross, the Albatross
    About my neck was hung.

    PART III

    There passed a weary time. Each throat
    Was parched, and glazed each eye.
    A weary time! a weary time!
    How glazed each weary eye,
    When looking westward, I beheld
    A something in the sky.

    At first it seemed a little speck,
    And then it seemed a mist;
    It moved and moved, and took at last
    A certain shape, I wist.

    A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist!
    And still it neared and neared:
    As if it dodged a water-sprite,
    It plunged and tacked and veered.

    With throats unslaked, with black lips baked,
    We could nor laugh nor wail;
    Through utter drought all dumb we stood!
    I bit my arm, I sucked the blood,
    And cried, A sail! a sail!

    With throats unslaked, with black lips baked,
    Agape they heard me call:
    Gramercy! they for joy did grin,
    And all at once their breath drew in,
    As they were drinking all.

    See! see! (I cried) she tacks no more!
    Hither to work us weal;
    Without a breeze, without a tide,
    She steadies with upright keel!

    The western wave was all a-flame.
    The day was well nigh done!
    Almost upon the western wave
    Rested the broad bright Sun;
    When that strange shape drove suddenly
    Betwixt us and the Sun.

    And straight the Sun was flecked with bars,
    (Heaven’s Mother send us grace!)
    As if through a dungeon-grate he peered
    With broad and burning face.

    Alas! (thought I, and my heart beat loud)
    How fast she nears and nears!
    Are those her sails that glance in the Sun,
    Like restless gossameres?

    Are those her ribs through which the Sun
    Did peer, as through a grate?
    And is that Woman all her crew?
    Is that a DEATH? and are there two?
    Is DEATH that woman’s mate?

    Her lips were red, her looks were free,
    Her locks were yellow as gold:
    Her skin was as white as leprosy,
    The Night-mare LIFE-IN-DEATH was she,
    Who thicks man’s blood with cold.

    The naked hulk alongside came,
    And the twain were casting dice;
    ‘The game is done! I’ve won! I’ve won!’
    Quoth she, and whistles thrice.

    The Sun’s rim dips; the stars rush out:
    At one stride comes the dark;
    With far-heard whisper, o’er the sea,
    Off shot the spectre-bark.

    We listened and looked sideways up!
    Fear at my heart, as at a cup,
    My life-blood seemed to sip!
    The stars were dim, and thick the night,
    The steersman’s face by his lamp gleamed white;

    From the sails the dew did drip,
    Till clomb above the eastern bar
    The horned Moon, with one bright star
    Within the nether tip.

    One after one, by the star-dogged Moon
    Too quick for groan or sigh,
    Each turned his face with a ghastly pang,
    And cursed me with his eye.

    Four times fifty living men,
    (And I heard nor sigh nor groan)
    With heavy thump, a lifeless lump,
    They dropped down one by one.

    The souls did from their bodies fly,
    They fled to bliss or woe!
    And every soul, it passed me by,
    Like the whizz of my cross-bow!

    PART IV

    I fear thee, ancient Mariner!
    I fear thy skinny hand!
    And thou art long, and lank, and brown,
    As is the ribbed sea-sand.

    I fear thee and thy glittering eye,
    And thy skinny hand, so brown.’
    Fear not, fear not, thou Wedding-Guest!
    This body dropt not down.

    Alone, alone, all, all alone,
    Alone on a wide wide sea!
    And never a saint took pity on
    My soul in agony.

    The many men, so beautiful!
    And they all dead did lie:
    And a thousand thousand slimy things
    Lived on; and so did I.

    I looked upon the rotting sea,
    And drew my eyes away;
    I looked upon the rotting deck,
    And there the dead men lay.

    I looked to Heaven, and tried to pray;
    But or ever a prayer had gusht,
    A wicked whisper came, and made
    My heart as dry as dust.

    I closed my lids, and kept them close,
    And the balls like pulses beat;
    For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky
    Lay like a load on my weary eye,
    And the dead were at my feet.

    The cold sweat melted from their limbs,
    Nor rot nor reek did they:
    The look with which they looked on me
    Had never passed away.

    An orphan’s curse would drag to Hell
    A spirit from on high;
    But oh! more horrible than that
    Is a curse in a dead man’s eye!
    Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse,
    And yet I could not die.

    The moving Moon went up the sky,
    And no where did abide:
    Softly she was going up,
    And a star or two beside,

    Her beams bemocked the sultry main,
    Like April hoar-frost spread;
    But where the ship’s huge shadow lay,
    The charmed water burnt alway
    A still and awful red.

    Beyond the shadow of the ship,
    I watched the water-snakes:
    They moved in tracks of shining white,
    And when they reared, the elfish light
    Fell off in hoary flakes.

    Within the shadow of the ship
    I watched their rich attire:
    Blue, glossy green, and velvet black
    They coiled and swam; and every track
    Was a flash of golden fire.

    O happy living things! no tongue
    Their beauty might declare:
    A spring of love gushed from my heart,
    And I blessed them unaware.
    Sure my kind saint took pity on me,
    And I blessed them unaware.

    The self same moment I could pray;
    And from my neck so free
    The Albatross fell off, and sank
    Like lead into the sea.

    PART V

    Oh sleep! it is a gentle thing,
    Beloved from pole to pole!
    To Mary Queen the praise be given!
    She sent the gentle sleep from Heaven,
    That slid into my soul.

    The silly buckets on the deck,
    That had so long remained,
    I dreamt that they were filled with dew;
    And when I awoke, it rained.

    My lips were wet, my throat was cold,
    My garments all were dank;
    Sure I had drunken in my dreams,
    And still my body drank.

    I moved, and could not feel my limbs:
    I was so light, almost
    I thought that I had died in sleep,
    And was a blessed ghost.

    And soon I heard a roaring wind:
    It did not come anear;
    But with its sound it shook the sails,
    That were so thin and sere.

    The upper air burst into life!
    And a hundred fire-flags sheen,
    To and fro they were hurried about!
    And to and fro, and in and out,
    The wan stars danced between.

    And the coming wind did roar more loud,
    And the sails did sigh like sedge;
    And the rain poured down from one black cloud;
    The Moon was at its edge.

    The thick black cloud was cleft, and still
    The Moon was at its side:
    Like waters shot from some high crag,
    The lightning fell with never a jag,
    A river steep and wide.

    The loud wind never reached the ship,
    Yet now the Ship moved on!
    Beneath the lightning and the Moon
    The dead men gave a groan.

    They groaned, they stirred, they all uprose,
    Nor spake, nor moved their eyes;
    It had been strange, even in a dream,
    To have seen those dead men rise.

    The helmsman steered, the ship moved on;
    Yet never a breeze up blew;
    The mariners all ’gan work the ropes,
    Where they were wont to do;
    They raised their limbs like lifeless tools,
    We were a ghastly crew.

    The body of my brother’s son
    Stood by me, knee to knee:
    The body and I pulled at one rope,
    But he said nought to me.

    ‘I fear thee, ancient Mariner!’
    Be calm, thou Wedding-Guest!
    ’Twas not those souls that fled in pain,
    Which to their corses came again,
    But a troop of spirits blest:

    For when it dawned, they dropped their arms,
    And clustered round the mast;
    Sweet sounds rose slowly through their mouths,
    And from their bodies passed.

    Around, around, flew each sweet sound,
    Then darted to the Sun;
    Slowly the sounds came back again,
    Now mixed, now one by one.

    Sometimes a-dropping from the sky
    I heard the sky-lark sing,
    Sometimes all little birds that are,
    How they seemed to fill the sea and air
    With their sweet jargoning!

    And now ’twas like all instruments,
    Now like a lonely flute;
    And now it is an angel’s song,
    That makes the Heavens be mute.

    It ceased: yet still the sails made on
    A pleasant noise till noon,
    A noise like of a hidden brook
    In the leafy month of June,
    That to the sleeping woods all night
    Singeth a quiet tune.

    Till noon we quietly sailed on,
    Yet never a breeze did breathe:
    Slowly and smoothly went the ship,
    Moved onward from beneath.

    Under the keel nine fathom deep,
    From the land of mist and snow,
    The spirit slid: and it was he
    That made the ship to go.
    The sails at noon left off their tune,
    And the ship stood still also.

    The Sun, right up above the mast,
    Had fixed her to the ocean:
    But in a minute she ’gan stir
    With a short uneasy motion,
    Backwards and forwards half her length
    With a short uneasy motion.

    Then like a pawing horse let go,
    She made a sudden bound:
    It flung the blood into my head,
    And I fell down in a swound.

    How long in that same fit I lay,
    I have not to declare;
    But ere my living life returned,
    I heard and in my soul discerned
    Two VOICES in the air.

    ‘Is it he?’ quoth one, ‘Is this the man?
    By him who died on cross,
    With his cruel bow he laid full low
    The harmless Albatross.

    The spirit who bideth by himself
    In the land of mist and snow,
    He loved the bird that loved the man
    Who shot him with his bow.’

    The other was a softer voice,
    As soft as honey-dew:
    Quoth he, ‘The man hath penance done,
    And penance more will do.’

    PART VI

    FIRST VOICE
    ‘But tell me, tell me! speak again,
    Thy soft response renewing,
    What makes that ship drive on so fast?
    What is the OCEAN doing?’

    SECOND VOICE
    ‘Still as a slave before his lord,
    The OCEAN hath no blast;
    His great bright eye most silently
    Up to the Moon is cast,

    If he may know which way to go;
    For she guides him smooth or grim.
    See, brother, see! how graciously
    She looketh down on him.’

    FIRST VOICE
    ‘But why drives on that ship so fast,
    Without a wave or wind?’

    SECOND VOICE
    ‘The air is cut away before,
    And closes from behind.

    Fly, brother, fly! more high, more high!
    Or we shall be belated:
    For slow and slow that ship will go,
    When the Mariner’s trance is abated.’

    I woke, and we were sailing on
    As in a gentle weather:
    ’Twas night, calm night, the Moon was high;
    The dead men stood together.

    All stood together on the deck,
    For a charnel-dungeon fitter:
    All fixed on me their stony eyes,
    That in the Moon did glitter.

    The pang, the curse, with which they died,
    Had never passed away:
    I could not draw my eyes from theirs,
    Nor turn them up to pray.

    And now this spell was snapt: once more
    I viewed the ocean green,
    And looked far forth, yet little saw
    Of what had else been seen,

    Like one, that on a lonesome road
    Doth walk in fear and dread,
    And having once turned round walks on,
    And turns no more his head;
    Because he knows, a frightful fiend
    Doth close behind him tread.

    But soon there breathed a wind on me,
    Nor sound nor motion made:
    Its path was not upon the sea,
    In ripple or in shade.

    It raised my hair, it fanned my cheek
    Like a meadow-gale of spring,
    It mingled strangely with my fears,
    Yet it felt like a welcoming.

    Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship,
    Yet she sailed softly too:
    Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze,
    On me alone it blew.

    Oh! dream of joy! is this indeed
    The light-house top I see?
    Is this the hill? is this the kirk?
    Is this mine own countree?

    We drifted o’er the harbour-bar,
    And I with sobs did pray,
    O let me be awake, my God!
    Or let me sleep alway.

    The harbour-bay was clear as glass,
    So smoothly it was strewn!
    And on the bay the moonlight lay,
    And the shadow of the Moon.

    The rock shone bright, the kirk no less,
    That stands above the rock:
    The moonlight steeped in silentness
    The steady weathercock.

    And the bay was white with silent light,
    Till rising from the same,
    Full many shapes, that shadows were,
    In crimson colours came.

    A little distance from the prow
    Those crimson shadows were:
    I turned my eyes upon the deck,
    Oh, Christ! what saw I there!

    Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat
    And, by the holy rood!
    A man all light, a seraph-man,
    On every corse there stood.

    This seraph-band, each waved his hand:
    It was a heavenly sight!
    They stood as signals to the land,
    Each one a lovely light;

    This seraph-band, each waved his hand,
    No voice did they impart,
    No voice; but oh! the silence sank
    Like music on my heart.

    But soon I heard the dash of oars,
    I heard the Pilot’s cheer;
    My head was turned perforce away,
    And I saw a boat appear.

    The Pilot and the Pilot’s boy,
    I heard them coming fast:
    Dear Lord in Heaven! it was a joy
    The dead men could not blast.

    I saw a third, I heard his voice:
    It is the Hermit good!
    He singeth loud his godly hymns
    That he makes in the wood.
    He’ll shrieve my soul, he’ll wash away
    The Albatross’s blood.

    PART VII

    This Hermit good lives in that wood
    Which slopes down to the sea.
    How loudly his sweet voice he rears!
    He loves to talk with marineres
    That come from a far countree.

    He kneels at morn, and noon, and eve,
    He hath a cushion plump:
    It is the moss that wholly hides
    The rotted old oak-stump.

    The skiff-boat neared: I heard them talk,
    ‘Why, this is strange, I trow!
    Where are those lights so many and fair,
    That signal made but now?’

    ‘Strange, by my faith!’ the Hermit said,
    ‘And they answered not our cheer!
    The planks looked warped! and see those sails,
    How thin they are and sere!
    I never saw aught like to them,
    Unless perchance it were

    Brown skeletons of leaves that lag
    My forest-brook along;
    When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow,
    And the owlet whoops to the wolf below,
    That eats the she-wolf's young.’

    ‘Dear Lord! it hath a fiendish look,
    (The Pilot made reply)
    I am a-feared’, ‘Push on, push on!’
    Said the Hermit cheerily.

    The boat came closer to the ship,
    But I nor spake nor stirred;
    The boat came close beneath the ship,
    And straight a sound was heard.

    Under the water it rumbled on,
    Still louder and more dread:
    It reached the ship, it split the bay;
    The ship went down like lead.

    Stunned by that loud and dreadful sound,
    Which sky and ocean smote,
    Like one that hath been seven days drowned
    My body lay afloat;
    But swift as dreams, myself I found
    Within the Pilot’s boat.

    Upon the whirl, where sank the ship,
    The boat spun round and round;
    And all was still, save that the hill
    Was telling of the sound.

    I moved my lips, the Pilot shrieked
    And fell down in a fit;
    The holy Hermit raised his eyes,
    And prayed where he did sit.

    I took the oars: the Pilot’s boy,
    Who now doth crazy go,
    Laughed loud and long, and all the while
    His eyes went to and fro.
    ‘Ha! ha!’ quoth he, ‘full plain I see,
    The Devil knows how to row.’

    And now, all in my own countree,
    I stood on the firm land!
    The Hermit stepped forth from the boat,
    And scarcely he could stand.

    ‘O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man!’
    The Hermit crossed his brow.
    ‘Say quick,’ quoth he, ‘I bid thee say,
    What manner of man art thou?’

    Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched
    With a woeful agony,
    Which forced me to begin my tale;
    And then it left me free.

    Since then, at an uncertain hour,
    That agony returns:
    And till my ghastly tale is told,
    This heart within me burns.

    I pass, like night, from land to land;
    I have strange power of speech;
    That moment that his face I see,
    I know the man that must hear me:
    To him my tale I teach.

    What loud uproar bursts from that door!
    The wedding-guests are there:
    But in the garden-bower the bride
    And bride-maids singing are:
    And hark the little vesper bell,
    Which biddeth me to prayer!

    O Wedding-Guest! this soul hath been
    Alone on a wide wide sea:
    So lonely ’twas, that God himself
    Scarce seemed there to be.

    O sweeter than the marriage-feast,
    ’Tis sweeter far to me,
    To walk together to the kirk
    With a goodly company!

    To walk together to the kirk,
    And all together pray,
    While each to his great Father bends,
    Old men, and babes, and loving friends
    And youths and maidens gay!

    Farewell, farewell! but this I tell
    To thee, thou Wedding-Guest!
    He prayeth well, who loveth well
    Both man and bird and beast.

    He prayeth best, who loveth best
    All things both great and small;
    For the dear God who loveth us,
    He made and loveth all.’

    The Mariner, whose eye is bright,
    Whose beard with age is hoar,
    Is gone: and now the Wedding-Guest
    Turned from the bridegroom’s door.

    He went like one that hath been stunned,
    And is of sense forlorn:
    A sadder and a wiser man,
    He rose the morrow morn.

Kubla Khan by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

    In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
    A stately pleasure-dome decree:
    Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
    Through caverns measureless to man
    Down to a sunless sea.
    So twice five miles of fertile ground
    With walls and towers were girdled round:
    And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
    Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;
    And here were forests ancient as the hills,
    Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.

    But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
    Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
    A savage place! as holy and enchanted
    As e’er beneath a waning moon was haunted
    By woman wailing for her demon-lover!
    And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
    As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
    A mighty fountain momently was forced:
    Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
    Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
    Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher’s flail:
    And ’mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
    It flung up momently the sacred river.
    Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
    Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
    Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
    And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:
    And ’mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
    Ancestral voices prophesying war!
    The shadow of the dome of pleasure
    Floated midway on the waves;
    Where was heard the mingled measure
    From the fountain and the caves.
    It was a miracle of rare device,
    A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!

    A damsel with a dulcimer
    In a vision once I saw:
    It was an Abyssinian maid,
    And on her dulcimer she played,
    Singing of Mount Abora.
    Could I revive within me
    Her symphony and song,
    To such a deep delight ’twould win me
    That with music loud and long
    I would build that dome in air,
    That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
    And all who heard should see them there,
    And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
    His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
    Weave a circle round him thrice,
    And close your eyes with holy dread,
    For he on honey-dew hath fed
    And drunk the milk of Paradise.

To My Empty Purse by Geoffrey Chaucer

    To you, my purse, and to none other wight,
    Complain I, for ye be my lady dere;
    I am sorry now that ye be light,
    For, certes, ye now make me heavy chere;
    Me were as lefe be laid upon a bere,
    For which unto your mercy thus I crie,
    Be heavy againe, or els mote I die.

    Now vouchsafe this day or it be night,
    That I of you the blissful sowne may here,
    Or see your color like the sunne bright,
    That of yellowness had never pere;
    Ye are my life, ye be my hertes stere,
    Queen of comfort and of good companie,
    Be heavy againe, or els mote I die.

    Now purse, thou art to me my lives light,
    And saviour, as downe in this world here,
    Out of this towne helpe me by your might,
    Sith that you will not be my treasure,
    For I am slave as nere as any frere,
    But I pray unto your curtesie,
    Be heavy againe, or els mote I die.

The Walrus and the Carpenter by Lewis Carroll

The sun was shining on the sea,
Shining with all his might:
He did his very best to make
The billows smooth and bright,
And this was odd, because it was
The middle of the night.

The moon was shining sulkily,
Because she thought the sun
Had got no business to be there
After the day was done,
'It's very rude of him.' she said,
'To come and spoil the fun!'

The sea was wet as wet could be,
The sands were dry as dry.
You could not see a cloud, because
No cloud was in the sky:
No birds were flying overhead,
There were no birds to fly.

The Walrus and the Carpenter
Were walking close at hand:
They wept like anything to see
Such quantities of sand:
'If this were only cleared away,'
They said, 'it would be grand.'

'If seven maids with seven mops
Swept it for half a year,
Do you suppose,' the Walrus said,
'That they could get it clear?'
'l doubt it,' said the Carpenter,
And shed a bitter tear.

'O Oysters, come and walk with us!
The Walrus did beseech.
'A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,
Along the briny beach:
We cannot do with more than four,
To give a hand to each.'

The eldest Oyster looked at him,
But never a word he said:
The eldest Oyster winked his eye,
And shook his heavy head,
Meaning to say he did not choose
To leave the oyster-bed.

Out four young Oysters hurried up.
All eager for the treat:
Their coats were brushed, their faces washed,
Their shoes were clean and neat,
And this was odd, because, you know,
They hadn't any feet.

Four other Oysters followed them,
And yet another four;
And thick and fast they came at last,
And more, and more, and more,
All hopping through the frothy waves,
And scrambling to the shore.

The Walrus and the Carpenter
Walked on a mile or so,
And then they rested on a rock
Conveniently low:
And all the little Oysters stood
And waited in a row.

'The time has come,' the Walrus said,
'To talk of many things:
Of shoes,    and ships,    and sealing wax,
Of cabbages,    and kings,
And why the sea is boiling hot,
And whether pigs have wings.'

'But wait a bit,' the Oysters cried,
'Before we have our chat;
For some of us are out of breath,
And all of us are fat!'
'No hurry!' said the Carpenter.
They thanked him much for that.

'A loaf of bread,' the Walrus said,
'Is what we chiefly need:
Pepper and vinegar besides
Are very good indeed,
Now, if you're ready, Oysters dear,
We can begin to feed.'

'But not on us!' the Oysters cried,
Turning a little blue.
'After such kindness, that would be
A dismal thing to do!'
'The night is fine,' the Walrus said,
'Do you admire the view?'

'It was so kind of you to come!
And you are very nice!'
The Carpenter said nothing but
'Cut us another slice-
I wish you were not quite so deaf-
I've had to ask you twice!'

'It seems a shame,' the Walrus said,
'To play them such a trick.
After we've brought them out so far,
And made them trot so quick!'
The Carpenter said nothing but
'The butter's spread too thick!'

'I weep for you,'the Walrus said:
'I deeply sympathize.'
With sobs and tears he sorted out
Those of the largest size,
Holding his pocket-handkerchief
Before his streaming eyes.

'O Oysters,' said the Carpenter,
'You've had a pleasant run!
Shall we be trotting home again?'
But answer came there none,
And this was scarcely odd, because
They'd eaten every one.

Jabberwocky by Lewis Carroll

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought,
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood a while in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!

One two! One two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

"And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
Oh frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!"
He chortled in his joy.

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

So We'll Go No More A-Roving by George Gordon Byron

1.

    So we'll go no more a-roving
    So late into the night,
    Though the heart be still as loving,
    And the moon be still as bright.

2.

    For the sword outwears its sheath,
    And the soul wears out the breast,
    And the heart must pause to breathe,
    And Love itself have rest.

3.

    Though the night was made for loving,
    And the day returns too soon,
    Yet we'll go no more a-roving
    By the light of the moon.

    Feb. 28, 1817.

                [First published, Letters and Journals, 1830, ii. 79.]

To A Mouse, On Turning Her Up In Her Nest With The Plough, November 1785 by Robert Burns

        Wee, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie,
        O, what a panic's in thy breastie!
        Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
            Wi' bickering brattle!
        I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee,
            Wi' murd'ring pattle!

        I'm truly sorry man's dominion
        Has broken nature's social union,
        An' justifies that ill opinion,
            Which makes thee startle
        At me, thy poor earth-born companion,
            An' fellow-mortal!

        I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve;
        What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
        A daimen icker in a thrave
            'S a sma' request:
        I'll get a blessin' wi' the lave,
            And never miss't!

        Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin;
        Its silly wa's the win's are strewin'!
        An' naething, now, to big a new ane,
            O' foggage green!
        An' bleak December's winds ensuin',
            Baith snell and keen!

        Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste,
        An' weary winter comin' fast,
        An' cozie here, beneath the blast,
            Thou thought to dwell,
        'Till, crash! the cruel coulter past
            Out thro' thy cell.

        That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble,
        Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!
        Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble,
            But house or hald,
        To thole the winter's sleety dribble,
            An' cranreuch cauld!

        But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane,
        In proving foresight may be vain:
        The best laid schemes o' mice an' men,
            Gang aft a-gley,
        An' lea'e us nought but grief and pain,
            For promis'd joy.

        Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me!
        The present only toucheth thee:
        But, Och! I backward cast my e'e,
            On prospects drear!
        An' forward, tho' I canna see,
            I guess an' fear.