Lament of the Winds by Archibald Lampman

    We in sorrow coldly witting,
    In the bleak world sitting, sitting,
    By the forest, near the mould,
    Heard the summer calling, calling,
    Through the dead leaves falling, falling,
    That her life grew faint and old.

    And we took her up, and bore her,
    With the leaves that moaned before her,
    To the holy forest bowers,
    Where the trees were dense and serried,
    And her corpse we buried, buried,
    In the graveyard of the flowers.

    Now the leaves, as death grows vaster,
    Yellowing deeper, dropping faster,
    All the grave wherein she lies
    With their bodies cover, cover,
    With their hearts that love her, love her,
    For they live not when she dies:

    And we left her so, but stay not
    Of our tears, and yet we may not,
    Though they coldly thickly fall,
    Give the dead leaves any, any,
    For they lie so many, many,
    That we cannot weep for all.

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 imposters 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!

On First Looking Into Chapman's Homer of John Keats

    Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold,
    And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;
    Round many western islands have I been
    Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.
    Oft of one wide expanse had I been told
    That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne;
    Yet did I never breathe its pure serene
    Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:
    Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
    When a new planet swims into his ken;
    Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes
    He star'd at the Pacific, and all his men
    Look'd at each other with a wild surmise,
    Silent, upon a peak in Darien.

Ode to a Nightingale by John Keats

    My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
    My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
    Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
    One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
    ’Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
    But being too happy in thine happiness,
    That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees,
    In some melodious plot
    Of beechen green and shadows numberless,
    Singest of summer in full-throated ease.

    O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been
    Cool’d a long age in the deep-delved earth,
    Tasting of Flora and the country green,
    Dance, and Provenial song, and sunburnt mirth!
    O for a beaker full of the warm South,
    Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
    With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
    And purple-stained mouth;
    That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
    And with thee fade away into the forest dim:

    Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
    What thou among the leaves hast never known,
    The weariness, the fever, and the fret
    Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
    Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,
    Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
    Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
    And leaden-eyed despairs,
    Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
    Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.

    Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
    Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
    But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
    Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
    Already with thee! tender is the night,
    And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
    Cluster’d around by all her starry Fays;
    But here there is no light,
    Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
    Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.

    I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
    Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
    But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet
    Wherewith the seasonable month endows
    The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
    White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
    Fast fading violets cover’d up in leaves;
    And mid-May’s eldest child,
    The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
    The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.

    Darkling I listen; and, for many a time
    I have been half in love with easeful Death,
    Call’d him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
    To take into the air my quiet breath;
    Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
    To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
    While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
    In such an ecstasy!
    Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain,
    To thy high requiem become a sod.

    Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
    No hungry generations tread thee down;
    The voice I hear this passing night was heard
    In ancient days by emperor and clown:
    Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
    Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
    She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
    The same that oft-times hath
    Charm’d magic casements, opening on the foam
    Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

    Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
    To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
    Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
    As she is fam’d to do, deceiving elf.
    Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
    Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
    Up the hill-side; and now ’Tis buried deep
    In the next valley-glades:
    Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
    Fled is that music: Do I wake or sleep?

Ode on a Grecian Urn by John Keats

    Thou still unravish’d bride of quietness,
    Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,
    Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
    A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
    What leaf-fring’d legend haunts about thy shape
    Of deities or mortals, or of both,
    In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
    What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
    What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
    What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?

    Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
    Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
    Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear’d,
    Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
    Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
    Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
    Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
    Though winning near the goal yet, do not grieve;
    She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
    For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!

    Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
    Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
    And, happy melodist, unwearied,
    For ever piping songs for ever new;
    More happy love! more happy, happy love!
    For ever warm and still to be enjoy’d,
    For ever panting, and for ever young;
    All breathing human passion far above,
    That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy’d,
    A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.

    Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
    To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
    Lead’st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
    And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
    What little town by river or sea shore,
    Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
    Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
    And, little town, thy streets for evermore
    Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
    Why thou art desolate, can e’er return.

    O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
    Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
    With forest branches and the trodden weed;
    Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
    As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
    When old age shall this generation waste,
    Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
    Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say’st,
    “Beauty is truth, truth beauty,” that is all
    Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.

La Belle Dame Sans Merci by John Keats

1.

    Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,
    Alone and palely loitering?
    The sedge is withered from the lake,
    And no birds sing.

2.

    Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,
    So haggard and so woe-begone
    The squirrel's granary is full,
    And the harvest's done.

3.

    I see a lily on thy brow
    With anguish moist and fever dew,
    And on thy cheek a fading rose
    Fast withereth too.

4.

    I met a lady in the meads,
    Full beautiful, a faery's child:
    Her hair was long, her foot was ligh,
    And her eyes were wild.

5.

    I set her on my pacing steed,
    And nothing else saw all day long;
    For sideways would she lean, and sing
    A faery's song.

6.

    I made a garland for her head,
    And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
    She looked at me as she did love,
    And made sweet moan.

7.

    She found me roots of relish sweet,
    And honey wild, and manna dew,
    And sure in language strange she said,
    "I love thee true!"

8.

    She took me to her elfin grot,
    And there she gazed and sighed deep,
    And there I shut her wild, sad eyes
    So kissed to sleep.

9.

    And there we slumbered on the moss,
    And there I dreamed, ah! woe betide,
    The latest dream I ever dreamed
    On the cold hill side.

10.

    I saw pale kings, and princes too,
    Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
    Who cried "La belle Dame sans merci
    Hath thee in thrall!"

11.

    I saw their starved lips in the gloam,
    With horrid warning gaped wide,
    And I awoke and found me here,
    On the cold hill side.

12.

    And that is why I sojourn here,
    Alone and palely loitering,
    Though the sedge is withered from the lake,
    And no birds sing.

The Songster by E. Pauline Johnson

Music, music with throb and swing,
  Of a plaintive note, and long;
'Tis a note no human throat could sing,
No harp with its dulcet golden string,–
Nor lute, nor lyre with liquid ring,
  Is sweet as the robin's song.
He sings for love of the season
  When the days grow warm and long,
For the beautiful God-sent reason
  That his breast was born for song.
Calling, calling so fresh and clear,
  Through the song-sweet days of May;
Warbling there, and whistling here,
He swells his voice on the drinking ear,
On the great, wide, pulsing atmosphere
  Till his music drowns the day.
He sings for love of the season
  When the days grow warm and long,
For the beautiful God-sent reason
  That his breast was born for song.

The Happy Hunting Grounds by E. Pauline Johnson

    Into the rose gold westland, its yellow prairies roll,
    World of the bison's freedom, home of the Indian's soul.
    Roll out, O seas! in sunlight bathed,
    Your plains wind-tossed, and grass enswathed.

    Farther than vision ranges, farther than eagles fly,
    Stretches the land of beauty, arches the perfect sky,
    Hemm'd through the purple mists afar
    By peaks that gleam like star on star.

    Fringing the prairie billows, fretting horizon's line,
    Darkly green are slumb'ring wildernesses of pine,
    Sleeping until the zephyrs throng
    To kiss their silence into song.

    Whispers freighted with odour swinging into the air,
    Russet needles as censers swing to an altar, where
    The angels' songs are less divine
    Than duo sung twixt breeze and pine.

    Laughing into the forest, dimples a mountain stream,
    Pure as the airs above it, soft as a summer dream,
    O! Lethean spring thou'rt only found
    Within this ideal hunting ground.

    Surely the great Hereafter cannot be more than this,
    Surely we'll see that country after Time's farewell kiss.
    Who would his lovely faith condole?
    Who envies not the Red-skin's soul,

    Sailing into the cloud land, sailing into the sun,
    Into the crimson portals ajar when life is done?
    O! dear dead race, my spirit too
    Would fain sail westward unto you.

The Song My Paddle Sings by E. Pauline Johnson

    West wind, blow from your prairie nest,
    Blow from the mountains, blow from the west.
    The sail is idle, the sailor too;
    O! wind of the west, we wait for you.
    Blow, blow!
    I have wooed you so,
    But never a favour you bestow.
    You rock your cradle the hills between,
    But scorn to notice my white lateen.

    I stow the sail, unship the mast:
    I wooed you long but my wooing's past;
    My paddle will lull you into rest.
    O! drowsy wind of the drowsy west,
    Sleep, sleep,
    By your mountain steep,
    Or down where the prairie grasses sweep!
    Now fold in slumber your laggard wings,
    For soft is the song my paddle sings.

    August is laughing across the sky,
    Laughing while paddle, canoe and I,
    Drift, drift,
    Where the hills uplift
    On either side of the current swift.

    The river rolls in its rocky bed;
    My paddle is plying its way ahead;
    Dip, dip,
    While the waters flip
    In foam as over their breast we slip.

    And oh, the river runs swifter now;
    The eddies circle about my bow.
    Swirl, swirl!
    How the ripples curl
    In many a dangerous pool awhirl!

    And forward far the rapids roar,
    Fretting their margin for evermore.
    Dash, dash,
    With a mighty crash,
    They seethe, and boil, and bound, and splash.

    Be strong, O paddle! be brave, canoe!
    The reckless waves you must plunge into.
    Reel, reel.
    On your trembling keel,
    But never a fear my craft will feel.

    We've raced the rapid, we're far ahead!
    The river slips through its silent bed.
    Sway, sway,
    As the bubbles spray
    And fall in tinkling tunes away.

    And up on the hills against the sky,
    A fir tree rocking its lullaby,
    Swings, swings,
    Its emerald wings,
    Swelling the song that my paddle sings.

Under Canvas - In Muskoka by E. Pauline Johnson

    Lichens of green and grey on every side;
    And green and grey the rocks beneath our feet;
    Above our heads the canvas stretching wide;
    And over all, enchantment rare and sweet.

    Fair Rosseau slumbers in an atmosphere
    That kisses her to passionless soft dreams.
    O! joy of living we have found thee here,
    And life lacks nothing, so complete it seems.

    The velvet air, stirred by some elfin wings,
    Comes swinging up the waters and then stills
    Its voice so low that floating by it sings
    Like distant harps among the distant hills.

    Across the lake the rugged islands lie,
    Fir-crowned and grim; and further in the view
    Some shadows seeming swung 'twixt cloud and sky,
    Are countless shores, a symphony of blue.

    Some northern sorceress, when day is done,
    Hovers where cliffs uplift their gaunt grey steeps,
    Bewitching to vermilion Rosseau's sun,
    That in a liquid mass of rubies sleeps.

    The scent of burning leaves, the camp-fire's blaze,
    The great logs cracking in the brilliant flame,
    The groups grotesque, on which the firelight plays,
    Are pictures which Muskoka twilights frame.

    And Night, star-crested, wanders up the mere
    With opiates for idleness to quaff,
    And while she ministers, far off I hear
    The owl's uncanny cry, the wild loon's laugh.

The Legend of Qu'Appelle Valley by E. Pauline Johnson

    I am the one who loved her as my life,
        Had watched her grow to sweet young womanhood;
    Won the dear privilege to call her wife,
        And found the world, because of her, was good.
    I am the one who heard the spirit voice,
        Of which the paleface settlers love to tell;
    From whose strange story they have made their choice
        Of naming this fair valley the "Qu'Appelle."

    She had said fondly in my eager ear -
        "When Indian summer smiles with dusky lip,
    Come to the lakes, I will be first to hear
        The welcome music of thy paddle dip.
    I will be first to lay in thine my hand,
        To whisper words of greeting on the shore;
    And when thou would'st return to thine own land,
        I'll go with thee, thy wife for evermore."

    Not yet a leaf had fallen, not a tone
        Of frost upon the plain ere I set forth,
    Impatient to possess her as my own -
        This queen of all the women of the North.
    I rested not at even or at dawn,
        But journeyed all the dark and daylight through -
    Until I reached the Lakes, and, hurrying on,
        I launched upon their bosom my canoe.

    Of sleep or hunger then I took no heed,
        But hastened o'er their leagues of waterways;
    But my hot heart outstripped my paddle's speed
        And waited not for distance or for days,
    But flew before me swifter than the blade
        Of magic paddle ever cleaved the Lake,
    Eager to lay its love before the maid,
        And watch the lovelight in her eyes awake.

    So the long days went slowly drifting past;
        It seemed that half my life must intervene
    Before the morrow, when I said at last -
        "One more day's journey and I win my queen!"
    I rested then, and, drifting, dreamed the more
        Of all the happiness I was to claim, -
    When suddenly from out the shadowed shore,
        I heard a voice speak tenderly my name.

    "Who calls?" I answered; no reply; and long
        I stilled my paddle blade and listened. Then
    Above the night wind's melancholy song
        I heard distinctly that strange voice again -
    A woman's voice, that through the twilight came
        Like to a soul unborn - a song unsung.

    I leaned and listened - yes, she spoke my name,
        And then I answered in the quaint French tongue,
    "Qu'Appelle? Qu'Appelle?" No answer, and the night
        Seemed stiller for the sound, till round me fell
    The far-off echoes from the far-off height -
        "Qu'Appelle?" my voice came back, "Qu'Appelle? Qu'Appelle?"
    This - and no more; I called aloud until
        I shuddered as the gloom of night increased,
    And, like a pallid spectre wan and chill,
        The moon arose in silence in the east.

    I dare not linger on the moment when
        My boat I beached beside her tepee door;
    I heard the wail of women and of men, -
        I saw the death-fires lighted on the shore.
    No language tells the torture or the pain,
        The bitterness that flooded all my life, -
    When I was led to look on her again,
        That queen of women pledged to be my wife.
    To look upon the beauty of her face,
        The still closed eyes, the lips that knew no breath;
    To look, to learn, - to realize my place
        Had been usurped by my one rival - Death.
    A storm of wrecking sorrow beat and broke
        About my heart, and life shut out its light
    Till through my anguish some one gently spoke,
        And said, "Twice did she call for thee last night."

    I started up - and bending o'er my dead,
        Asked when did her sweet lips in silence close.
    "She called thy name - then passed away," they said,
    "Just on the hour whereat the moon arose."

    Among the lonely Lakes I go no more,
        For she who made their beauty is not there;
    The paleface rears his tepee on the shore
        And says the vale is fairest of the fair.
    Full many years have vanished since, but still
        The voyageurs beside the campfire tell
    How, when the moonrise tips the distant hill,
        They hear strange voices through the silence swell.
    The paleface loves the haunted lakes they say,
        And journeys far to watch their beauty spread
    Before his vision; but to me the day,
        The night, the hour, the seasons are all dead.
    I listen heartsick, while the hunters tell
        Why white men named the valley The Qu'Appelle.

Canadian Born by E. Pauline Johnson

    We first saw light in Canada, the land beloved of God;
    We are the pulse of Canada, its marrow and its blood:
    And we, the men of Canada, can face the world and brag
    That we were born in Canada beneath the British flag.

    Few of us have the blood of kings, few are of courtly birth,
    But few are vagabonds or rogues of doubtful name and worth;
    And all have one credential that entitles us to brag -
    That we were born in Canada beneath the British flag.

    We've yet to make our money, we've yet to make our fame,
    But we have gold and glory in our clean colonial name;
    And every man's a millionaire if only he can brag
    That he was born in Canada beneath the British flag.

    No title and no coronet is half so proudly worn
    As that which we inherited as men Canadian born.
    We count no man so noble as the one who makes the brag
    That he was born in Canada beneath the British flag.

    The Dutch may have their Holland, the Spaniard have his Spain,
    The Yankee to the south of us must south of us remain;
    For not a man dare lift a hand against the men who brag
    That they were born in Canada beneath the British flag.

Calgary of the Plains by E. Pauline Johnson

    Not of the seething cities with their swarming human hives,
    Their fetid airs, their reeking streets, their dwarfed and poisoned lives,
    Not of the buried yesterdays, but of the days to be,
    The glory and the gateway of the yellow West is she.

    The Northern Lights dance down her plains with soft and silvery feet,
    The sunrise gilds her prairies when the dawn and daylight meet;
    Along her level lands the fitful southern breezes sweep,
    And beyond her western windows the sublime old mountains sleep.

    The Redman haunts her portals, and the Paleface treads her streets,
    The Indian's stealthy footstep with the course of commerce meets,
    And hunters whisper vaguely of the half forgotten tales
    Of phantom herds of bison lurking on her midnight trails.

    Not hers the lore of olden lands, their laurels and their bays;
    But what are these, compared to one of all her perfect days?
    For naught can buy the jewel that upon her forehead lies -
    The cloudless sapphire Heaven of her territorial skies.

At Crow's Nest Pass by E. Pauline Johnson

    At Crow's Nest Pass the mountains rend
    Themselves apart, the rivers wend
        A lawless course about their feet,
        And breaking into torrents beat
    In useless fury where they blend
            At Crow's Nest Pass.

    The nesting eagle, wise, discreet,
    Wings up the gorge's lone retreat
    And makes some barren crag her friend
            At Crow's Nest Pass.

    Uncertain clouds, half-high, suspend
    Their shifting vapours, and contend
        With rocks that suffer not defeat;
        And snows, and suns, and mad winds meet
    To battle where the cliffs defend
            At Crow's Nest Pass.

At Half-Mast by E. Pauline Johnson

    You didn't know Billy, did you? Well, Bill was one of the boys,
    The greatest fellow you ever seen to racket an' raise a noise, -
    An' sing! say, you never heard singing 'nless you heard Billy sing.
    I used to say to him, "Billy, that voice that you've got there'd bring
    A mighty sight more bank-notes to tuck away in your vest,
    If only you'd go on the concert stage instead of a-ranchin' West."
    An' Billy he'd jist go laughin', and say as I didn't know
    A robin's whistle in springtime from a barnyard rooster's crow.
    But Billy could sing, an' I sometimes think that voice lives anyhow, -
    That perhaps Bill helps with the music in the place he's gone to now.

    The last time that I seen him was the day he rode away;
    He was goin' acrost the plain to catch the train for the East next day.
    'Twas the only time I ever seen poor Bill that he didn't laugh
    Or sing, an' kick up a rumpus an' racket around, and chaff,
    For he'd got a letter from his folks that said for to hurry home,
    For his mother was dyin' away down East an' she wanted Bill to come.
    Say, but the feller took it hard, but he saddled up right away,
    An' started across the plains to take the train for the East, next day.
    Sometimes I lie awake a-nights jist a-thinkin' of the rest,
    For that was the great big blizzard day, when the wind come down from west,
    An' the snow piled up like mountains an' we couldn't put foot outside,
    But jist set into the shack an' talked of Bill on his lonely ride.
    We talked of the laugh he threw us as he went at the break o' day,
    An' we talked of the poor old woman dyin' a thousand mile away.

    Well, Dan O'Connell an' I went out to search at the end of the week,
    Fer all of us fellers thought a lot, - a lot that we darsn't speak.
    We'd been up the trail about forty mile, an' was talkin' of turnin' back,
    But Dan, well, he wouldn't give in, so we kep' right on to the railroad track.
    As soon as we sighted them telegraph wires says Dan, "Say, bless my soul!
    Ain't that there Bill's red handkerchief tied half way up that pole?"
    Yes, sir, there she was, with her ends a-flippin' an' flyin' in the wind,
    An' underneath was the envelope of Bill's letter tightly pinned.
    "Why, he must a-boarded the train right here," says Dan, but I kinder knew
    That underneath them snowdrifts we would find a thing or two;
    Fer he'd writ on that there paper, "Been lost fer hours, - all hope is past.
    You'll find me, boys, where my handkerchief is flyin' at half-mast."

Valedictory by Aldous Huxley

    I had remarked--how sharply one observes
    When life is disappearing round the curves
    Of yet another corner, out of sight!--
    I had remarked when it was "good luck" and "good night"
    And "a good journey to you," on her face
    Certain enigmas penned in the hieroglyphs
    Of that half frown and queer fixed smile and trace
    Of clouded thought in those brown eyes,
    Always so happily clear of hows and ifs--
    My poor bleared mind!--and haunting whys.

    There I stood, holding her farewell hand,
    (Pressing my life and soul and all
    The world to one good-bye, till, small
    And smaller pressed, why there I'd stand
    Dead when they vanished with the sight of her).
    And I saw that she had grown aware,
    Queer puzzled face! of other things
    Beyond the present and her own young speed,
    Of yesterday and what new days might breed
    Monstrously when the future brings
    A charger with your late-lamented head:
    Aware of other people's lives and will,
    Aware, perhaps, aware even of me ...
    The joyous hope of it! But still
    I pitied her; for it was sad to see
    A goddess shorn of her divinity.
    In the midst of her speed she had made pause,
    And doubts with all their threat of claws,
    Outstripped till now by her unconsciousness,
    Had seized on her; she was proved mortal now.
    "Live, only live! For you were meant
    Never to know a thought's distress,
    But a long glad astonishment
    At the world's beauty and your own.
    The pity of you, goddess, grown
    Perplexed and mortal."
                Yet ... yet ... can it be
    That she is aware, perhaps, even of me?

    And life recedes, recedes; the curve is bare,
    My handkerchief flutters blankly in the air;
    And the question rumbles in the void:
    Was she aware, was she after all aware?

God's Grandeur by Gerard Manley Hopkins

    The world is charged with the grandeur of God.
    It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;
    It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
    Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?
    Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
    And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;
    And wears man's smudge and shares man's smell: the soil
    Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.

    And for all this, nature is never spent;
    There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
    And though the last lights off the black West went
    Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs -
    Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
    World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.

The Darkling Thrush by Thomas Hardy

    I leant upon a coppice gate
    When Frost was spectre-gray,
    And Winter's dregs made desolate
    The weakening eye of day.
    The tangled bine-stems scored the sky
    Like strings from broken lyres,
    And all mankind that haunted nigh
    Had sought their household fires.

    The land's sharp features seemed to be
    The Century's corpse outleant,
    His crypt the cloudy canopy,
    The wind his death-lament.
    The ancient pulse of germ and birth
    Was shrunken hard and dry,
    And every spirit upon earth
    Seemed fervourless as I.

    At once a voice outburst among
    The bleak twigs overhead
    In a full-hearted evensong
    Of joy illimited;
    An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,
    In blast-beruffled plume,
    Had chosen thus to fling his soul
    Upon the growing gloom.

    So little cause for carollings
    Of such ecstatic sound
    Was written on terrestrial things
    Afar or nigh around,
    That I could think there trembled through
    His happy good-night air
    Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew
    And I was unaware.

    December 1900.

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.

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's 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's 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.