Poetry

Loveliest of Trees, the Cherry Now
by A.E. Housman


Loveliest of trees, the cherry now
Is hung with bloom along the bough,
And stands about the woodland ride
Wearing white for Eastertide.

Now, of my threescore years and ten,
Twenty will not come again,
And take from seventy springs a score,
It only leaves me fifty more.

And since to look at things in bloom
Fifty springs are but little room,
About the woodland I will go
To see the cherry hung with snow.

I Don't Want To Die
by Anonymous


I WANT to go home,
I want to go home,
I don't want to go in the trenches no more,
Where whizz-bangs and shrapnel they whistle and roar.
Take me over the sea
Where the Alleyman can't get at me.
Oh my,
I don't want to die,
I want to go home.

Big Rock Candy Mountains
by Anonymous


One evening as the sun went down
And the jungle fire was burning,
Down the track came a hobo hikin',
And he said, "Boys, I'm not turning.
I'm headed for a land that's far away
Beside the crystal fountains.
So come with me we'll go and see
The Big Rock Candy mountains.

In the Big Rock Candy Mountains,
There's a land that's fair and bright,
Where the handouts grow on bushes
And you sleep out every night.
Where the boxcars all are empty
And the sun shines every day
On the birds and the bees,
And the cigarette trees.
The lemonade springs
Where the bluebird sings,
In the Big Rock Candy Mountains.

In the Big Rock Candy Mountains,
All the cops have wooden legs,
And the bulldogs all have rubber teeth
And the hens lay soft wild eggs.
The farmers' trees are full of fruit
And the barns are full of hay.

Oh, I'm bound to go
Where there ain't no snow
Where the rain don't fall
The wind don't blow
In the Big Rock Candy Mountains.

In the Big Rock Candy Mountains
You never change your socks
And little streams of alcohol
Come a' trickling down the rocks
The brakemen have to tip their hats
And the railroad bulls are blind
There's a lake of stew
And of whisky too
You can paddle all around 'em in a big canoe
In the Big Rock Candy Mountains.

In the Big Rock Candy Mountains
The jails are made of tin,
And you can walk right out again
As soon as you are in.
There ain't no short-handled shovels,
No axes, saws or picks,
I'm a' goin' to stay
Where you sleep all day,
Where they hung the jerk
That invented work
In the Big Rock Candy Mountains.

I'll see you all this comin' fall
In the Big Rock Candy Mountains.

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night
by 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.

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.

In Just-
by e.e. cummings


in Just-
spring    when the world is mud-
luscious the little
lame balloonman

whistles     far     and wee

and eddieandbill come
running from marbles and
piracies and it's
spring

when the world is puddle-wonderful

the queer
old balloonman whistles
far    and    wee
and bettyandisbel come dancing

from hop-scotch and jump-rope and

it's
spring
and
   the
        goat-footed

balloonMan    whistles
far
and
wee

next to of course god america i
by e.e. cummings


"next to of course god america i
love you land of the pilgrims' and so forth oh
say can you see by the dawn's early my
country 'tis of centuries come and go
and are no more what of it we should worry
in every language even deafanddumb
thy sons acclaim your glorious name by gorry
by jingo by gee by gosh by gum
why talk of beauty what could be more beaut-
iful than these heroic happy dead
who rushed like lions to the roaring slaughter
they did not stop to think they died instead
then shall the voice of liberty be mute?"

He spoke. And drank rapidly a glass of water

who are you,little i
by e.e. cummings


who are you,little i

(five or six years old)
peering from some high

window;at the gold


of november sunset

(and feeling:that if day
has to become night

this is a beautiful way)

anyone lived in a pretty how town
by e.e. cummings


anyone lived in a pretty how town
(with up so floating many bells down)
spring summer autumn winter
he sang his didn't he danced his did

Women and men(both little and small)
cared for anyone not at all
they sowed their isn't they reaped their same
sun moon stars rain

children guessed(but only a few
and down they forgot as up they grew
autumn winter spring summer)
that noone loved him more by more

when by now and tree by leaf
she laughed his joy she cried his grief
bird by snow and stir by still
anyone's any was all to her

someones married their everyones
laughed their cryings and did their dance
(sleep wake hope and then)they
said their nevers they slept their dream

stars rain sun moon
(and only the snow can begin to explain
how children are apt to forget to remember
with up so floating many bells down)

one day anyone died i guess
(and noone stooped to kiss his face)
busy folk buried them side by side
little by little and was by was

all by all and deep by deep
and more by more they dream their sleep
noone and anyone earth by april
wish by spirit and if by yes.

Women and men(both dong and ding)
summer autumn winter spring
reaped their sowing and went their came
sun moon stars rain

The Raven
by Edgar Allan Poe

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
" 'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door;
Only this, and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow, sorrow for the lost Lenore.
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore,
Nameless here forevermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me---filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
" 'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door,
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door.
This it is, and nothing more."

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is, I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you." Here I opened wide the door;---
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into the darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word,
Lenore?, This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word,
"Lenore!" Merely this, and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping, something louder than before,
"Surely," said I, "surely, that is something at my window lattice.
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore.
Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore.
" 'Tis the wind, and nothing more."

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven, of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door.
Perched upon a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door,
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven thou," I said, "art sure no craven,
Ghastly, grim, and ancient raven, wandering from the nightly shore.
Tell me what the lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore."
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning, little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door,
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as "Nevermore."

But the raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered; not a feather then he fluttered;
Till I scarcely more than muttered, "Other friends have flown before;
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."
Then the bird said, "Nevermore."

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster, till his songs one burden bore,---
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
Of "Never---nevermore."

But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore --
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore
                                       Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

Thus I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl, whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee -- by these angels he hath
Sent thee respite---respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, O quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!"
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore!"

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!--prophet still, if bird or devil!
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted--
On this home by horror haunted--tell me truly, I implore:
Is there--is there balm in Gilead?--tell me--tell me I implore!"
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil--prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that heaven that bends above us--by that God we both adore--
Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden, whom the angels name Lenore---
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels name Lenore?
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."

"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting--
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! -- quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming.
And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted---nevermore!

First Fig
by Edna St. Vincent Millay


My candle burns at both ends;
It wil not last the night;
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends--
It gives a lovely light!

To Hear an Oriole Sing
by Emily Dickinson


To hear an Oriole sing
May be a common thing --
Or only a divine.

It is not of the Bird
Who sings the same, unheard,
As unto Crowd --

The Fashion of the Ear
Attireth that it hear
In Dun, or fair --
So whether it be rune,
Or whether it be none
Is of within.

The "Tune is in the Tree --"
the Skeptic -- showeth me --
"No Sir! In Thee!"

It Was Not Death, For I Stood Up
by Emily Dickinson


It was not death, for I stood up,
And all the dead lie down.
It was not night, for all the bells
Put out their tongues for noon.

It was not frost, for on my flesh
I felt siroccos crawl,
Nor fire, for just my marble feet
Could keep a chancel cool.

And yet it tasted like them all,
The figures I have seen
Set orderly for burial
Reminded me of mine,

As if my life were shaven
And fitted to a frame
And could not breathe without a key,
And 'twas like midnight, some,

When everything that ticked has stopped
And space stares all around,
Or grisly frosts, first autumn morns,
Repeal the beating ground;

But most like chaos, stopless, cool,
Without a chance, or spar,
Or even a report of land
To justify despair.

The Wreck of the Hesperus
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow


It was the schooner Hesperus
        That sailed the wintry sea:
And the skipper had taken his little daughter,
        To bear him company.

Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax,
        Her cheeks like the dawn of day,
And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds
        The ope in the month of May.

The skipper he stood beside the helm,
        His pipe was in his mouth,
And he watched how the veering flaw did blow
        The smoke now West, now South.

Then up and spake an old sailor,
        Had sailed to the Spanish Main,
"I pray thee, put into yonder port,
        For I fear a hurricane.

"Last night, the moon had a golden ring,
        And tonight no moon we see!"
The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe,
        And a scornful laugh laughed he.

Colder and louder blew the wind,
        A gale from the Northeast,
The snow fell hissing in the brine,
        And the billows frothed like yeast.

Down came the storm, and smote amail,
        The vessle in ins strength:
She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed,
        Then leaped her cable's length.

"Come hither! come hither! my litle daughter,
        And do not tremble so:
For I can weather the roughest gale,
        That ever wind did blow."

He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat
        Against the stinging blast;
He cut a rope from a broken spar,
        And bound her to the mast.

"O father! I hear the church-bells ring,
        O say, what may it be?"
"Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!"-
        And he steered for the open sea.

"O father! I hear the sound of guns,
        O say, what may it be?"
"Some ship in distress, that cannot live
        In such an angry sea!"

"O father! I see a gleaming light,
        O say, what may it be?"
But the father answered never a word,
        A froxed corpse was he.

Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark,
        With his face turned to the skies,
The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow
        On his fixed and glassy eyes.

Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed
        That sav? she might be;
And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave,
        On the Lake of Galilee.

And fast through the midnight dark and drear
        Through the whistling sleet and snow,
Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept
        Towards the reef of Norman's Woe.

And ever the fitful gusts between
        A sound came from the land;
It was the sound of the trampling surf,
        On the rocks and the hard sea-sand.

The breakers were right beneath her bows,
        She drifted a weary wreck,
And a whooping billow swept the crew
        Like icicles from her deck.

She struck where the white and fleecy waves
        Looked soft as carded wool,
But the cruel rocks, they gored her side
        Like the horns of an angry bull.

Her rattling shouds, all sheathed in ice,
        With the masts went by the board;
Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank,
        Ho! ho! the breakers roared!

At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach,
        A fisherman stood aghast,
To see the form of a maiden fair
        Lashed close to a drifting mast.

The salt sea was frozed on her breast,
        The salt tears in her eyes;
And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed,
        On the billows fall and rise.

Such was the wreck of the Hesperus,
        In the midnight and the snow!
Christ save us all from a death like this,
        On the reef of Norman's Woe!

Epitaph for Someone or Other
by J.V. Cunningham


Naked I came, naked I leave the scene,
And naked was my pastime in between.

The Butterfly Jar
by Jeff Moss


We had a jar with a butterfly
We opened the lid, and it flew to the sky
and there are things inside my head
waiting to be thought, waiting to be said
dreams, and jokes, and wonderings are
locked inside, like a butterfly jar
but then, when you are here with me
I can open the lid
and set them free

If You Wanna Be Happy
by Jimmy Soul


If you wanna be happy for the rest of your life
Never make a pretty woman your wife
So from my personal point of view
Get an ugly girl to marry you

If you wanna be happy for the rest of your life
Never make a pretty woman your wife
So from my personal point of view
Get an ugly girl to marry you

A pretty woman makes her husband look small
And very often causes his downfall
As soon as he marries her and then she starts
To do the things that will break his heart

But if you make an ugly woman your wife
A-you'll be happy for the rest of your life
An ug-a-ly woman cooks meals on time
And she'll always give you peace of mind

If you wanna be happy for the rest of your life
Never make a pretty woman your wife
So from my personal point of view
Get an ugly girl to marry you

Sax solo

Don't let your friends say you have no taste
Go ahead and marry anyway
Though her face is ugly, her eyes don't match
Take it from me, she's a better catch

If you wanna be happy for the rest of your life
Never make a pretty woman your wife
So from my personal point of view
Get an ugly girl to marry you

Spoken:
Say man!
Yeah baby!
I saw your wife the other day!
Yeah?
Yeah, an' she's ug-leeee!
Yeah, she's ugly, but she sure can cook, baby!
Yeah, alright!

If you wanna be happy for the rest of your life
Never make a pretty woman your wife
So from my personal point of view
Get an ugly girl to marry you

If you wanna be happy for the rest of your life
Never make a pretty woman your wife
So from my personal point of view
Get an ugly girl to marry you

If you wanna be happy for the rest of your life
Never make a pretty woman your wife
So from my personal point of view
Get an ugly girl to marry you

If you wanna be happy for the rest of your life
Never make a pretty woman your wife
So from my personal point of view
Get an ugly girl to marry you

Christmas Eve in Brooklyn
by Joe Quesada and Jimmy Palmiotti


'Twas the night before Christmas,
Da whole house was mellow,
Not a creature was stirrin',
I had a gun unda my pillow.

When up on da roof,
I heard somethin' pound,
I sprung to da window,
To scream,"Ay, keep it down!"

When what to my
Wanderin' eyes should appear,
But dat hairy elf Vinny,
And eight friggin' reindeer

Wit' a bad hackin' cough
And the stencha burped beer
I knew in a moment,
Yo, da Kringle wuz here!

Wit' a slap to dere snouts,
And a yank on dere manes,
He cursed and he shouted,
And called dem by name.

Yo Tony, Yo Frankie,
Yo Sally, Yo Vito,
Ay Joey, Ay Paulie,
Ay Pepe, Ay Guido!

As I drew out my gun
And hid by da bed,
Down came his friggin' boot
On da top of my head.

His eyes were all bloodshot,
His b.o. wuz scary,
His breath wuz like sewage,
He had a mole that wuz hairy.

He spit in my eye,
And he twisted my head.
He soon let me know
I should consider myself dead.

Den pointin' a fat finga
Right unda my nose,
He let out some gas,
And up the chimney he rose.

He sprang to his sleigh,
Obscenities screamin',
And away dey all flew,
Before he troo dem a beatin'.

But I heard him exclaim,
Or better yet grump,
Merry Christmas to all,
and Bite me, ya hump!

Tommorrow There Will Be More To Do
by John Wooden


Remember this your lifetime through
Tommorrow there will be more to do.
And failure waits for all who stay
With some success made yesterday.
Tomorrow you must try once more,
And even harder than before.

Dreams
by Langston Hughes


Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly

Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.

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&emdash;
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile 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 vorbal 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!
O 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.

The Boxer
by Paul Simon


I am just a poor boy.
Though my story's seldom told,
I have squandered my resistance
For a pocketful of mumbles,
Such are promises
All lies and jests
Still a man hears what he wants to hear
And disregards the rest.

When I left my home
And my family,
I was no more than a boy
In the company of strangers
In the quiet of the railway station,
Running scared,
Laying low,
Seeking out the poorer quarters
Where the ragged people go,
Looking for the places
Only they would know.

Asking only workman's wages
I have come looking for a job,
But I get no offers,
Only a come-on from the whores
On Seventh Avenue.
I do declare,
There were times when I was so lonesome
I took some comfort there.

(Now the years are rolling by me
They are rocking evenly
I am older than I once was
Younger than I'll be
But that's not unusual
No it isn't strange
After change upon changes
We are more or less the same
After changes we are more or less the same)

Then I'm laying out my winter clothes
And wishing I was gone,
Going home
Where the New York City winters
Aren't bleeding me,
leading me,
Going home.

In the clearing stands a boxer,
And a fighter by his trade
And he carries the reminders
Of ev'ry glove that laid him down
And cut him till he cried out
In his anger and his shame
"I am leaving, I am leaving."
But the fighter still remains...

Ozymandias
by Percy Bysshe Shelley


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

Aubade
by Philip Larkin


I work all day, and get half-drunk at night.
Waking at four to soundless dark, I stare.
In time the curtain-edges will grow light.
Till then I see what's really always there:
Unresting death, a whole day nearer now,
Making all thought impossible but how
And where and when I shall myself die.
Arid interrogation: yet the dread
Of dying, and being dead,
Flashes afresh to hold and horrify.

The mind blanks at the glare. Not in remorse
-- The good not done, the love not given, time
Torn off unused -- nor wretchedly because
An only life can take so long to climb
Clear of its wrong beginnings, and may never;
But at the total emptiness for ever,
The sure extinction that we travel to
And shall be lost in always. Not to be here,
Not to be anywhere,
And soon; nothing more terrible, nothing more true.

This is a special way of being afraid
No trick dispels. Religion used to try,
That vast moth-eaten musical brocade
Created to pretend we never die,
And specious stuff that says No rational being
Can fear a thing it will not feel, not seeing
That this is what we fear -- no sight, no sound,
No touch or taste or smell, nothing to think with,
Nothing to love or link with,
The anaesthetic from which none come round.

And so it stays just on the edge of vision,
A small unfocused blur, a standing chill
That slows each impulse down to indecision.
Most things may never happen: this one will,
And realisation of it rages out
In furnace-fear when we are caught without
People or drink. Courage is no good:
It means not scaring others. Being brave
Lets no one off the grave.
Death is no different whined at than withstood.

Slowly light strengthens, and the room takes shape.
It stands plain as a wardrobe, what we know,
Have always known, know that we can't escape,
Yet can't accept. One side will have to go.
Meanwhile telephones crouch, getting ready to ring
In locked-up offices, and all the uncaring
Intricate rented world begins to rouse.
The sky is white as clay, with no sun.
Work has to be done.
Postmen like doctors go from house to house.

To Failure
by Philip Larkin

You do not come dramatically, with dragons
That rear up with my life between their paws
And dash me butchered down beside the wagons,
The horses panicking; nor as a clause
Clearly set out to warn what can be lost,
What out-of-pocket charges must be borne
Expenses met; nor as a draughty ghost
That's seen, some mornings, running down a lawn.

It is these sunless afternoons, I find
Instal you at my elbow like a bore
The chestnut trees are caked with silence. I'm
Aware the days pass quicker than before,
Smell staler too. And once they fall behind
They look like ruin. You have been here some time.

The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner
by Randall Jarrell


From my mother's sleep I fell into the State
And I hunched in its belly till my wet fur froze.
Six miles from earth, loosed from its dream of life,
I woke to black flak and the nightmare fighters.
When I died they washed me out of the turret with a hose.

A Red, Red Rose
by Robert Burns


O my Luve's like a red, red rose,
That's newly sprung in June:
O my Luve's like the melodie
That's sweetly play'd in tune.

As 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:
And I will luve 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,
Tho' it were ten thousand mile!

To a Mouse
by Robert Burns


ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH THE PLOW, NOVEMBER, 1785

Wee, sleekit, cow'ring 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, whiles, 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 an' keen!

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

That wee-bit heap o'leaves an' stibble
Has cost thee money a weary nibble!
Now thou's turned 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 an' pain,
          For promised joy.

Still thou art blest compared wi' me!
The present only toucheth thee:
But och! I backward cast my e'e
          On prospects drear!
An' forward though I canna see,
          I guess an' fear!

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 as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, 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 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 yellow 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 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.

The Cremation of Sam McGee
by Robert W. Service


There are strange things done in the midnight sun
     By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
     That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
     But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
     I cremated Sam McGee

Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee,
     where the cotton blooms and blows
Why he left his home in the South to roam
     'round the Pole, God only knows.
He was always cold but the land of gold
     seemed to hold him like a spell;
Though he'd often say in his homely way
     that he'd sooner live in Hell.

On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way
     over the Dawson trail.
Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold
     it stabbed like a driven nail.
If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze
     till sometimes we couldn't see,
It wasn't much fun, but the only one
     to whimper was Sam McGee.

And that very night, as we lay packed tight
     in our robes beneath the snow,
And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead
     were dancing heel and toe,
He turned to me, and "Cap", says he,
     "I'll cash in this trip, I guess;
And if I do, I'm asking that you
     won't refuse my last request."

Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no;
     then he says with a sort of moan,
"It's the cursed cold, and it's got right hold
     till I'm chilled clean through to the bone
Yet 'taint being dead-it's my awful dread
     of the icy grave that pains;
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair,
     you'll cremate my last remains.

A pal's last need is a thing to heed,
     so I swore I would not fail;
And we started on at the streak of dawn
     but God! he looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day
     of his home in Tennessee;
And before nightfall a corpse was all
     that was left of Sam McGee.

There wasn't a breath in that land of death,
     and I hurried, horror-driven
With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid,
     because of a promise given;
It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say.
     "You may tax your brawn and brains,
But you promised true, and it's up to you
     to cremate these last remains".

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid,
     and the trail has its own stern code,
In the days to come, though my lips were dumb
     in my heart how I cursed that load!
In the long, long night, by the lone firelight,
     while the huskies, round in a ring,
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows-
     Oh God, how I loathed the thing!

And every day that quiet clay
     seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
And on I went, though the dogs were spent
     and the grub was getting low.
The trail was bad, and I felt half mad,
     but I swore I would not give in;
And I'd often sing to the hateful thing,
     and it hearkened with a grin.

Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge,
     and a derelict there lay;
It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice
     it was called the Alice May,
And I looked at it, and I thought a bit,
     and I looked at my frozen chum;
Then "Here", said I, with a sudden cry,
     "is my cre-ma-tor-eum"!

Some planks I tore from the cabin floor
     and I lit the boiler fire;
Some coal I found that was lying around,
     and I heaped the fuel higher;
The flames just soared, and the furnace roared
     such a blaze you seldom see,
And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal,
     and I stuffed in Sam McGee.

Then I made a hike, for I didn't like
     to hear him sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled,
     and the wind began to blow,
It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled
     down my cheeks, and I don't know why;
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak
     went streaking down the sky.

I do not know how long in the snow
     I wrestled with grisly fear;
But the stars came out and they danced about
     ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said,
     "I'll just take a peep inside.
I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked".
     Then the door I opened wide.

And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm,
     in the heart of the furnace roar;
And he wore a smile you could see a mile,
     and he said, "Please close that door.
It's fine in here, but I greatly fear
     you'll let in the cold and storm-
Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee,
     it's the first time I've been warm".

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
     By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
     That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
     But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
     I cremated Sam McGee

Wise Men In Their Bad Hours
by Robinson Jeffers

Wise men in their bad hours have envied
The little people making merry like grasshoppers
In spots of sunlight, hardly thinking
Backward but never forward, and if they somehow
Take hold upon the future they do it
Half asleep, with the tools of generation
Foolishly reduplicating
Folly in thirty-year periods; they eat and laugh too,
Groan against labors, wars and partings,
Dance, talk, dress and undress; wise men have pretended
The summer insects enviable;
One must indulge the wise in moments of mockery.
Strength and desire possess the future,
The breed of the grasshopper shrills, "What does the future
Matter, we shall be dead?" Ah, grasshoppers,
Death's a fierce meadowlark: but to die having made
Something more equal to the centuries
Than muscle and bone, is mostly to shed weakness.
The mountains are dead stone, the people
Admire or hate their stature, their insolent quietness,
The mountains are not softened nor troubled
And a few dead men's thoughts have the same temper.

Hermit Hoar
by Samuel Johnson


Hermit hoar, in solemn cell,
Wearing out life's evening gray,
Smite thy bosom, sage, and tell,
Where is bliss? and which the way?

Thus I spoke; and speaking sigh'd;
Scarce repress'd the starting tear;-
When the smiling sage reply'd-
Come, my lad, and drink some beer.

Badfish
by Sublime


When you grab a hold of me
Tell me that I'll never be set free
But I'm a parasite, creep and crawl I step into the night.
Two pints of booze
Tell me are you a badfish too?
...Are you a badfish too?...
Ain't got no money to spend
I wish the night would never end
Lord knows I'm weak
Won't somebody get me off of this reef
Baby you're a big blue whale
Grab the reef when all duck diving fails
I swim but I wish I'd never learned
The water's too polluted with germs
I dive deep when it's ten feet overhead
Grab the reef underneath my bed
...underneath my bed....
Ain't got no quarrels with God.
Ain't got no time to grow old
Lord knows I'm weak
Won't somebody get me off of this reef

Ain't got no quarrels with God.
Ain't got no time to get old
Lord knows I'm weak
Won't somebody get me off of this reef

Country Death Song
by The Violent Femmes


I had me a wife, I had me some daughters
I tried so hard, I never knew still waters
Nothin' to eat and nothin' to drink
Nothin' for a man to do but sit around and think
Nothin' for a man to do but sit around and think

Well I'm thinkin' and a'thinkin' 'till there's nuthin' I ain't thunk
Breathin' in the stink 'till finally I stunk
It was at that time I swear I lost my mind
Started makin' plans to kill my own kind
Started makin' plans to kill my own kind

Come little daughter I said the youngest one
Put your coat on, we'll have some fun
We'll go out to the mountain the one to explore
Her face then lit up, I was standin' by the door
Her face then lit up, I was standin' by the door

Come little daughter I'll carry the lantern
We'll go out tonight we'll go to the cavern
We'll go out tonight we'll go to the caves
Kiss your mother goodnight, and remember that God saves
Kiss your mother goodnight, and remember that God saves

I led her to a hole, a deep black well
I said make a wish, make sure and not tell
And close your eyes, dear, and count to seven
Know your papa loves you, good children go to heaven
Know your papa loves you, good children go to heaven

I gave her a push, I gave her a shove
I pushed with all my might, I pushed with all my love
I threw my child into a bottomless pit
She was screamin' as she fell, but I never heard her hit
She was screamin' as she fell, but I never heard her hit

Gather 'round boys, hear the tale that I tell
You wanna know how to take a short trip to hell?
It's gauranteed to get your own place in hell
Just take your lovely daughter, and push her in the well
Just take your lovely daughter, and throw her in the well

Don't speak to me of lovers with a broken heart
You wanna know what will really tear you apart
I'm goin' out to the barn with a never-stopping pain
I'm goin' out to the barn to hang myself in shame

He Wishes for the Cloths of Heav'n
by W. B. Yeats


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.

Disillusionment at Ten O'Clock
by Wallace Stevens


The houses are haunted
By white night-gowns.
None are green,
Or purple with green rings,
Or green with yellow rings,
Or yellow with blue rings.
None of them are strange,
With socks of lace
And beaded ceintures.
People are not going
To dream of baboons and periwinkles.
Only, here and there, an old sailor,
Drunk and asleep in his boots,
Catches tigers
In red weather.

Dulce et Decorum Est
by Wilfred Owen


Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.

Gas! GAS! Quick boys!--An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime--
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smoth'ring dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in.
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues.--
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

Sonnet 130: My Mistress' Eyes are Nothing Like the Sun
by Wiliam Shakespeare


My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral be far more red than her lips' red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hair 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.

Sonnet 55: Not Marble, Nor the Gilded Monuments
by William Shakespeare


Not marble, nor the gilded monuments
Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme;
But you shall shine more bright in these contents
Than unswept stone, besmeared with sluttish time.
When wasteful war shall statues overturn,
And broils root out the work of masonry,
Nor Mars his sword nor war's quick fire shall burn
The living record of your memory.
'Gainst death and all-oblivious enmity
Shall you pace forth; your praise shall still find room
Even in the eyes of all posterity
That wear this world out to the ending doom.
So, till the judgement that yourself arise,
You live in this, and dwell in lovers' eyes.