Casabianca (1826)

Felicia Hemans
The opening line of this poem is probably one of the best
The boy stood on the burning deck, known lines in English literature, even though many
Whence all but he had fled; people might not know anything about the rest of the
The flame that lit the battle’s wreck, poem, let alone who wrote it. ‘Casabianca’ was
Shone round him o’er the dead. memorised and recited by vast numbers of
Yet beautiful and bright he stood, English-speaking children in the nineteenth and twentieth
As born to rule the storm; centuries.
A creature of heroic blood,
A proud, though childlike form. Casabianca was a thirteen-year-old Corsican boy sailor
The flames rolled on – he would not go, who died at the Battle of the Nile, refusing to leave his
Without his father’s word; ship when it had caught fire. The poem’s appeal as a
That father, faint in death below, recitation piece in the nineteenth century is fairly obvious.
His voice no longer heard. In addition to its easy-to-remember, galloping rhythm, it
He called aloud – ‘Say, father, say is a morally uplifting tale of dutiful heroism. But
If yet my task is done?’ ‘Casabianca’ contains surprises, and not least in terms of
He knew not that the chieftain lay its rhythm. Where are the stresses in that famous first
Unconscious of his son. line?
‘Speak, father!’ once again he cried,
‘If I may yet be gone!’ The opening offers an almost nightmarish picture of the
– And but the booming shots replied, young sailor, surrounded by dead bodies illuminated by
And fast the flames rolled on. the encroaching flames. The boy will not leave his post
Upon his brow he felt their breath until his father, the admiral of the ship, gives him
And in his waving hair; permission, but the man is already dead.
And look’d from that lone post of death,
In still yet brave despair. Consider the dramatic tension in the description of the
And shouted but once more aloud, boy’s plight and the graphic account of the boy literally
‘My father! must I stay?’ blown to pieces by the exploding ship.
While o’er him fast, through sail and shroud,
The wreathing fires made way.
They wrapped the ship in splendour wild,
They caught the flag on high,
And streamed above the gallant child,
Like banners in the sky.
There came a burst of thunder sound –
The boy – oh! where was he?
Ask of the winds that far around
With fragments strewed the sea!
With mast, and helm, and pennon fair,
That well had borne their part,
But the noblest thing which perished there,
Was that young faithful heart.
‘Sing me a song of a lad that is gone’ (1892)
Robert Louis Stevenson
The ‘Skye Boat Song’ is one of the most famous and
Sing me a song of a lad that is gone, frequently sung Scottish folk songs, chronicling the escape
Say, could that lad be I? of Bonnie Prince Charlie (Charles Edward Stuart) to the
Merry of soul he sailed on a day Isle of Skye after his defeat at Culloden, aided by the
Over the sea to Skye. Jacobite heroine Flora MacDonald.
Mull was astern, Rum on the port, The words of the original ‘Skye Boat Song’ end with a
Eigg on the starboard bow; defiant ‘Charlie will come again’ and are written from the
Glory of youth glowed in his soul: perspective of an ardent Bonnie Prince loyalist, but in
Where is that glory now? Stevenson’s reworked version the tone is somewhat
Sing me a song of a lad that is gone, different. Using a similar structure but a less insistent
Say, could that lad be I? rhyming pattern, Stevenson concentrates on the inner
Merry of soul he sailed on a day feelings of the defeated prince. Ambition and optimism
Over the sea to Skye. have been replaced by a sense of weary loss. Notice the
Give me again all that was there, use of the repeated ‘Give me’ in verse four, emphasising
Give me the sun that shone! the depth of longing for that earlier time when hope
Give me the eyes, give me the soul, mingled with the expectation of glory.
Give me the lad that’s gone! Whereas the original boat song finishes with a sense of
Sing me a song of a lad that is gone, heroic failure and a romantic expression of future victory,
Say, could that lad be I? Stevenson’s ending is poignant and realistic. The speaker
Merry of soul he sailed on a day realises that he has lost everything, even his own identity:
Over the sea to Skye. ‘All that was me is gone.’ The ‘lad’ he once was is gone
Billow and breeze, islands and seas, and will never return.
Mountains of rain and sun,
All that was good, all that was fair, SONG: Bear Mcreary
All that was me is gone. Featured on the TV Series “Outlander”
Dulce et Decorum Est (1918)
Wilfred Owen The Latin phrase in the final lines, attributed to the
Roman poet Horace, means, “It is sweet and fitting to die
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, for one’s country.” The alliterative power and visual force
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through of the poem’s opening lines is maintained throughout one
sludge, of the most famous poems of the First World War.
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs, Written in part as a response to some of the sentimental,
And towards our distant rest began to trudge. patriotic and popular poems of the first years of the war,
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots, Owen worked on the poem at a hospital in Scotland
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind; where he was recovering from shell shock in 1917.
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots His comment in a Preface to his poems that “My subject is
Of gas-shells dropping softly behind. War, and the pity of War. The Poetry is in the pity,” is
Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling powerfully reflected in the brutal language and imagery of
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time, this haunting poem.
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling Consider the choices Owen makes in terms of diction as
And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime.— he confronts us with the traumatic realities of trench
Dim through the misty panes and thick green light, warfare. Why do you think he uses the phrase, “An
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning. ecstasy of fumbling…” in line 9? Note how the poem
In all my dreams before my helpless sight, moves from the external description of the gruesome
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning. realities of warfare to a focus on the internal impact of
If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace war on the poet in line 15, “In all my dreams before my
Behind the wagon that we flung him in, helpless sight,”. The ending then confronts the “old Lie” of
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face, the title with a bludgeoning simplicity.
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.
“Funeral Blues”
In Flanders Fields
By W.H. Auden BY JOHN MCCRAE

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone, Between the crosses, row on row,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum That mark our place; and in the sky
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come. The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message ‘He is Dead’. We are the Dead. Short days ago
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
doves, Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
In Flanders fields.
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
He was my North, my South, my East and West, To you from failing hands we throw
My working week and my Sunday rest, The torch; be yours to hold it high.
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; If ye break faith with us who die
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong. We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
The stars are not wanted now; put out every one, In Flanders fields.
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

Featured in: Four Weddings and a Funeral

O Captain! My Captain!
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
BY WALT WHITMAN (Leaves of Grass)
O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
BY ROBERT FROST
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won, Whose woods these are I think I know.
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, His house is in the village though;
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring; He will not see me stopping here
But O heart! heart! heart! To watch his woods fill up with snow.
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead. My little horse must think it queer
O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; To stop without a farmhouse near
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills, Between the woods and frozen lake
For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a- The darkest evening of the year.
crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father! He gives his harness bells a shake
This arm beneath your head! To ask if there is some mistake.
It is some dream that on the deck, The only other sound’s the sweep
You’ve fallen cold and dead. Of easy wind and downy flake.
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and
done, But I have promises to keep,
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won; And miles to go before I sleep,
Exult O shores, and ring O bells! And miles to go before I sleep.
But I with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

Featured in: Dead Poets Society

The Road Not Taken I Hear America Singing
BY ROBERT FROST Walt Whitman - 1819-1892

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear,
And sorry I could not travel both Those of mechanics, each one singing his as it should be
And be one traveler, long I stood blithe and strong,
And looked down one as far as I could The carpenter singing his as he measures his plank or
To where it bent in the undergrowth; beam,
The mason singing his as he makes ready for work, or
Then took the other, as just as fair, leaves off work,
And having perhaps the better claim, The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat, the
Because it was grassy and wanted wear; deckhand singing on the steamboat deck,
Though as for that the passing there The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench, the hatter
Had worn them really about the same, singing as he stands,
The wood-cutter’s song, the ploughboy’s on his way in the
And both that morning equally lay morning, or at noon intermission or at sundown,
In leaves no step had trodden black. The delicious singing of the mother, or of the young wife
Oh, I kept the first for another day! at work, or of the girl sewing or washing,
Yet knowing how way leads on to way, Each singing what belongs to him or her and to none else,
I doubted if I should ever come back. The day what belongs to the day—at night the party of
young fellows, robust, friendly,
I shall be telling this with a sigh Singing with open mouths their strong melodious songs.
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I— "I Hear America Singing" is a poem by the American poet
I took the one less traveled by, Walt Whitman, first published in the 1860 edition of his
And that has made all the difference. book Leaves of Grass. Though the poem was written on
the eve of the Civil War, it presents a vision of America as
a harmonious community. Moving from the city to the
country, and the land to the sea, the poem envisions
America as a place where people do honest, meaningful,
and satisfying work—and celebrate that work in song.
America emerges from the work of these many and
diverse individual people: their separate work comes
together to form a coherent whole. In this way, in the
poem's account, America is a nation where individuality
and unity are balanced, each producing and reinforcing
the other.
Address to a Haggis Address to a Haggis Translation
Robert Burns

Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face, Good luck to you and your honest, plump face,
Great chieftain o the puddin'-race! Great chieftain of the sausage race!
Aboon them a' ye tak your place, Above them all you take your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm: Stomach, tripe, or intestines:
Weel are ye wordy o' a grace Well are you worthy of a grace
As lang's my arm. As long as my arm.
The groaning trencher there ye fill, The groaning trencher there you fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill, Your buttocks like a distant hill,
Your pin wad help to mend a mill Your pin would help to mend a mill
In time o need, In time of need,
While thro your pores the dews distil While through your pores the dews distill
Like amber bead. Like amber bead.
His knife see rustic Labour dight, His knife see rustic Labour wipe,
An cut you up wi ready slight, And cut you up with ready slight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright, Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like onie ditch; Like any ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight, And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm-reekin, rich! Warm steaming, rich!
Then, horn for horn, they stretch an strive: Then spoon for spoon, the stretch and strive:
Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive, Devil take the hindmost, on they drive,
Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve Till all their well swollen bellies by-and-by
Are bent like drums; Are bent like drums;
The auld Guidman, maist like to rive, Then old head of the table, most like to burst,
'Bethankit' hums. 'The grace!' hums.
Is there that owre his French ragout, Is there that over his French ragout,
Or olio that wad staw a sow, Or olio that would sicken a sow,
Or fricassee wad mak her spew Or fricassee would make her vomit
Wi perfect scunner, With perfect disgust,
Looks down wi sneering, scornfu view Looks down with sneering, scornful view
On sic a dinner? On such a dinner?
Poor devil! see him owre his trash, Poor devil! see him over his trash,
As feckless as a wither'd rash, As feeble as a withered rush,
His spindle shank a guid whip-lash, His thin legs a good whip-lash,
His nieve a nit; His fist a nut;
Thro bloody flood or field to dash, Through bloody flood or field to dash,
O how unfit! O how unfit.
But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed, But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread, The trembling earth resounds his tread,
Clap in his walie nieve a blade, Clap in his ample fist a blade,
He'll make it whissle; He'll make it whistle;
An legs an arms, an heads will sned, And legs, and arms, and heads will cut off
Like taps o thrissle. Like the heads of thistles.
Ye Pow'rs, wha mak mankind your care, You powers, who make mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o fare, And dish them out their bill of fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware Old Scotland wants no watery stuff,
That jaups in luggies: That splashes in small wooden dishes;
But, if ye wish her gratefu prayer, But if you wish her grateful prayer,
Gie her a Haggis Give her [Scotland] a Haggis!
Ode on a Grecian Urn The Scotsman’s Return from Abroad
BY JOHN KEATS (excerpt)
Robert Louis Stevenson
Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of silence and slow time, But maistly thee, the bluid o' Scots,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express Frae Maidenkirk to John o' Grots,
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme: The king o' drinks, as I conceive it,
What leaf-fring'd legend haunts about thy shape Talisker, Isla, or Glenlivet!
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? Featured in: Charlie Wilson’s War
What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy? Do not go gentle into that good night
Dylan Thomas - 1914-1953
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; Do not go gentle into that good night,
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd, Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone: Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare; Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss, Because their words had forked no lightning they
Though winning near the goal yet, do not grieve; Do not go gentle into that good night.
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair! Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearied, Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
For ever piping songs for ever new; And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
More happy love! more happy, happy love! Do not go gentle into that good night.
For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,
For ever panting, and for ever young; Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
All breathing human passion far above, Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd, Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Who are these coming to the sacrifice? Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
To what green altar, O mysterious priest, Do not go gentle into that good night.
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies, Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
What little town by river or sea shore,
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, Featured in the Dylan Dyland contest in Dangerous Minds
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."
Kubla Khan Lays of Ancient Rome
BY SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE (excerpt)
Thomas Babington Macaulay
Or, a vision in a dream. A Fragment.
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan “Then out spake brave Horatius,
A stately pleasure-dome decree: The Captain of the Gate:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran To every man upon this earth
Through caverns measureless to man Death cometh soon or late.
Down to a sunless sea. And how can man die better
So twice five miles of fertile ground Than facing fearful odds,
With walls and towers were girdled round; For the ashes of his fathers,
And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills, And the temples of his gods”
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;
And here were forests ancient as the hills, Featured in: Darkest Hour
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.
Jabberwocky
But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted BY LEWIS CARROLL
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
A savage place! as holy and enchanted ’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
As e’er beneath a waning moon was haunted Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
By woman wailing for her demon-lover! All mimsy were the borogoves,
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething, And the mome raths outgrabe.
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced: “Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail, Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher’s flail: The frumious Bandersnatch!”
And mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river. He took his vorpal sword in hand;
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion Long time the manxome foe he sought—
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran, So rested he by the Tumtum tree
Then reached the caverns measureless to man, And stood awhile in thought.
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean;
And ’mid this tumult Kubla heard from far And, as in uffish thought he stood,
Ancestral voices prophesying war! The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
The shadow of the dome of pleasure Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
Floated midway on the waves; And burbled as it came!
Where was heard the mingled measure
From the fountain and the caves. One, two! One, two! And through and through
It was a miracle of rare device, The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice! He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.
A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw: “And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
It was an Abyssinian maid Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
And on her dulcimer she played, O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!”
Singing of Mount Abora. He chortled in his joy.
Could I revive within me
Her symphony and song, ’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
To such a deep delight ’twould win me, Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
That with music loud and long, All mimsy were the borogoves,
I would build that dome in air, And the mome raths outgrabe.
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.
 And yet the menace of the years
If Finds and shall find me unafraid.
Rudyard Kipling It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you, I am the master of my fate,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, I am the captain of my soul.
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, The Builders
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:
All are architects of Fate,
If you can dream—and not make dreams your master; Working in these walls of Time;
If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim; Some with massive deeds and great,
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster Some with ornaments of rhyme.
And treat those two impostors just the same;
Nothing useless is, or low;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken Each thing in its place is best;
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, And what seems but idle show
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken, Strengthens and supports the rest.
And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools: For the structure that we raise,
Time is with materials filled;
If you can make one heap of all your winnings Our to-days and yesterdays
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, Are the blocks with which we build.
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss; Truly shape and fashion these;
Leave no yawning gaps between;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew Think not, because no man sees,
To serve your turn long after they are gone, Such things will remain unseen.
And so hold on when there is nothing in you In the elder days of Art,
Except the Will which says to them: “Hold on!” Builders wrought with greatest care
Each minute and unseen part;
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch, For the Gods see everywhere.
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you, Let us do our work as well,
If all men count with you, but none too much; Both the unseen and the seen;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute Make the house, where Gods may dwell,
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run, Beautiful, entire, and clean.

Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it, Else our lives are incomplete,
And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son! Standing in these walls of Time,
Broken stairways, where the feet
Stumble as they seek to climb.
Invictus
William Ernest Henley Build to-day, then, strong and sure,
With a firm and ample base;
Out of the night that covers me, And ascending and secure
Black as the pit from pole to pole, Shall to-morrow find its place.
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul. Thus alone can we attain
To those turrets, where the eye
In the fell clutch of circumstance Sees the world as one vast plain,
I have not winced nor cried aloud. And one boundless reach of sky.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
The Soldier IV
Rupert Brooke Flashed all their sabres bare,
Flashed as they turned in air
If I should die, think only this of me: Sabring the gunners there,
That there’s some corner of a foreign field Charging an army, while
That is for ever England. All the world wondered.
Plunged in the battery-smoke
There shall be Right through the line they broke;
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed; Cossack and Russian
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware, Reeled from the sabre stroke
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam; Shattered and sundered.
Then they rode back, but not
A body of England’s, breathing English air, Not the six hundred.
Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.
And think, this heart, all evil shed away, V
Cannon to right of them,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less Cannon to left of them,
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given; Cannon behind them
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day; Volleyed and thundered;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness, Stormed at with shot and shell,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven. While horse and hero fell.
They that had fought so well
Came through the jaws of Death,
The Charge of the Light Brigade Back from the mouth of hell,
Alfred, Lord Tennyson All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.
I
Half a league, half a league, VI
Half a league onward, When can their glory fade?
All in the valley of Death O the wild charge they made!
Rode the six hundred. All the world wondered.
“Forward, the Light Brigade! Honour the charge they made!
Charge for the guns!” he said. Honour the Light Brigade,
Into the valley of Death Noble six hundred!
Rode the six hundred.
Featured in The Blind Side
II
“Forward, the Light Brigade!” Ode 1.11 by Horace
Was there a man dismayed? You should not ask, it is unholy to know, for me or for you
Not though the soldier knew what end the gods will have given, O Leuconoe, nor Babylonian
Someone had blundered. calculations attempt. Much better it is whatever will be to
Theirs not to make reply, endure,
Theirs not to reason why, whether more winters Jupiter has allotted or the last,
Theirs but to do and die. which now weakens against opposing rocks the sea
Into the valley of Death Tyrrhenian: be wise, strain your wines, and because of brief life
Rode the six hundred. cut short long-term hopes. While we are speaking, envious will
have fled
III a lifetime: seize the day, as little as possible trusting the future.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volleyed and thundered;
Stormed at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of hell
Rode the six hundred.
“The Negro Speaks of Rivers” Rises by open means; and there will stand
Langston Hughes On honourable terms, or else retire,
And in himself possess his own desire;
I’ve known rivers: Who comprehends his trust, and to the same
I’ve known rivers ancient as the world and older than the Keeps faithful with a singleness of aim;
flow of human blood in human veins. And therefore does not stoop, nor lie in wait
For wealth, or honours, or for worldly state;
My soul has grown deep like the rivers. Whom they must follow; on whose head must fall,
I bathed in the Euphrates when dawns were young. Like showers of manna, if they come at all:
I built my hut near the Congo and it lulled me to sleep. Whose powers shed round him in the common strife,
Or mild concerns of ordinary life,
I looked upon the Nile and raised the pyramids above it. A constant influence, a peculiar grace;
I heard the singing of the Mississippi when Abe Lincoln But who, if he be called upon to face
went down to New Orleans, and I’ve seen its muddy Some awful moment to which Heaven has joined
bosom turn all golden in the sunset. Great issues, good or bad for human kind,
Is happy as a Lover; and attired
I’ve known rivers: With sudden brightness, like a Man inspired;
Ancient, dusky rivers. And, through the heat of conflict, keeps the law
In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw;
My soul has grown deep like the rivers. Or if an unexpected call succeed,
Come when it will, is equal to the need:
—He who, though thus endued as with a sense
“Character of the Happy Warrior” And faculty for storm and turbulence,
William Wordsworth Is yet a Soul whose master-bias leans
To homefelt pleasures and to gentle scenes;
Who is the happy Warrior? Who is he Sweet images! which, wheresoe’er he be,
That every man in arms should wish to be? Are at his heart; and such fidelity
—It is the generous Spirit, who, when brought It is his darling passion to approve;
Among the tasks of real life, hath wrought More brave for this, that he hath much to love:—
Upon the plan that pleased his boyish thought: ‘Tis, finally, the Man, who, lifted high,
Whose high endeavours are an inward light Conspicuous object in a Nation’s eye,
That makes the path before him always bright; Or left unthought-of in obscurity,—
Who, with a natural instinct to discern Who, with a toward or untoward lot,
What knowledge can perform, is diligent to learn; Prosperous or adverse, to his wish or not—
Abides by this resolve, and stops not there, Plays, in the many games of life, that one
But makes his moral being his prime care; Where what he most doth value must be won:
Who, doomed to go in company with Pain, Whom neither shape or danger can dismay,
And Fear, and Bloodshed, miserable train! Nor thought of tender happiness betray;
Turns his necessity to glorious gain; Who, not content that former worth stand fast,
In face of these doth exercise a power Looks forward, persevering to the last,
Which is our human nature’s highest dower: From well to better, daily self-surpast:
Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves Who, whether praise of him must walk the earth
Of their bad influence, and their good receives: For ever, and to noble deeds give birth,
By objects, which might force the soul to abate Or he must fall, to sleep without his fame,
Her feeling, rendered more compassionate; And leave a dead unprofitable name—
Is placable—because occasions rise Finds comfort in himself and in his cause;
So often that demand such sacrifice; And, while the mortal mist is gathering, draws
More skilful in self-knowledge, even more pure, His breath in confidence of Heaven’s applause:
As tempted more; more able to endure, This is the happy Warrior; this is he
As more exposed to suffering and distress; That every man in arms should wish to be
Thence, also, more alive to tenderness.
—’Tis he whose law is reason; who depends
Upon that law as on the best of friends;
Whence, in a state where men are tempted still
To evil for a guard against worse ill,
And what in quality or act is best
Doth seldom on a right foundation rest,
He labours good on good to fix, and owes
To virtue every triumph that he knows:
—Who, if he rise to station of command,
Ode The glory about us clinging
ARTHUR O'SHAUGHNESSY Of the glorious futures we see,
Our souls with high music ringing:
We are the music makers, O men! it must ever be
And we are the dreamers of dreams, That we dwell, in our dreaming and singing,
Wandering by lone sea-breakers, A little apart from ye.
And sitting by desolate streams; —
World-losers and world-forsakers, For we are afar with the dawning
On whom the pale moon gleams: And the suns that are not yet high,
Yet we are the movers and shakers And out of the infinite morning
Of the world for ever, it seems. Intrepid you hear us cry —
How, spite of your human scorning,
With wonderful deathless ditties Once more God's future draws nigh,
We build up the world's great cities, And already goes forth the warning
And out of a fabulous story That ye of the past must die.
We fashion an empire's glory:
One man with a dream, at pleasure, Great hail! we cry to the comers
Shall go forth and conquer a crown; From the dazzling unknown shore;
And three with a new song's measure Bring us hither your sun and your summers;
Can trample a kingdom down. And renew our world as of yore;
You shall teach us your song's new numbers,
We, in the ages lying, And things that we dreamed not before:
In the buried past of the earth, Yea, in spite of a dreamer who slumbers,
Built Nineveh with our sighing, And a singer who sings no more
And Babel itself in our mirth;
And o'erthrew them with prophesying
To the old of the new world's worth;
For each age is a dream that is dying, Song inspired by Ode:
Or one that is coming to birth. “Crazy Dreams” by Paul Brady (1992)

A breath of our inspiration Hello you long shots

Is the life of each generation; You dark horse runners
A wondrous thing of our dreaming Hairbrush singers, dashboard drummers
Unearthly, impossible seeming — Hello you wild magnolias
The soldier, the king, and the peasant Just waiting to bloom
Are working together in one,
Till our dream shall become their present, There's a little bit of all that inside of me and you
And their work in the world be done. Thank God even crazy dreams come true

They had no vision amazing I stood at the bottom of some walls I thought I couldn't climb
Of the goodly house they are raising; I felt like Cinderella at the ball just running out of time
They had no divine foreshowing So I know how it feels to be afraid
Of the land to which they are going: Think that it's all gonna slip away
But on one man's soul it hath broken, Hold on, hold on
A light that doth not depart;
And his look, or a word he hath spoken, Here's to you free souls, you firefly chasers
Wrought flame in another man's heart. Tree climbers, porch swingers, air guitar players
Here's to you fearless dancers, shaking walls in your bedrooms
And therefore to-day is thrilling
With a past day's late fulfilling; There's a lot of wonder left inside of me and you
And the multitudes are enlisted Thank God even crazy dreams come true
In the faith that their fathers resisted,
And, scorning the dream of to-morrow, Never let a bad day be enough
Are bringing to pass, as they may, To go and talk you in to giving up
In the world, for its joy or its sorrow, Sometimes everybody feels like you
The dream that was scorned yesterday. Oh, feels like you, just like you
Yeah
But we, with our dreaming and singing,
Ceaseless and sorrowless we!
She Walks in Beauty And love itself have rest.
BY LORD BYRON (GEORGE GORDON)
Though the night was made for loving,
She walks in beauty, like the night And the day returns too soon,
Of cloudless climes and starry skies; Yet we'll go no more a-roving
And all that’s best of dark and bright By the light of the moon.
Meet in her aspect and her eyes;
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies. Death Be Not Proud
Poem by John Donne
One shade the more, one ray the less, Death be not proud, though some have called thee
Had half impaired the nameless grace Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not soe,
Which waves in every raven tress, For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,
Or softly lightens o’er her face; Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill mee.
Where thoughts serenely sweet express, From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
And on that cheek, and o’er that brow, Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow, And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,
But tell of days in goodness spent, And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
A mind at peace with all below, And better then thy stroake; why swell'st thou then?
A heart whose love is innocent! One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.

A Red, Red Rose

By Robert Burns (1794) Crossing the Bar
O my Luve's like a red, red rose, Alfred Lord Tennyson
That's newly sprung in June:
O my Luve's like the melodie, Sunset and evening star,
That's sweetly play'd in tune. And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
As fair art thou, my bonie lass, When I put out to sea,
So deep in luve am I;
And I will luve thee still, my dear, But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
Till a' the seas gang dry. Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, Turns again home.
And the rocks melt wi' the sun;
And I will luve thee still, my dear, Twilight and evening bell,
While the sands o' life shall run. And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
And fare-thee-weel, my only Luve! When I embark;
And fare-thee-weel, a while!
And I will come again, my Luve, For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place
Tho' 'twere ten thousand mile The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
When I have crost the bar.
We'll go no more a-roving
George Gordon, Lord Byron
(1788-1824)

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.

For the sword outwears its sheath,

And the soul wears out the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
The Song of Mr. Toad
by Kenneth Grahame "You are!
"What a beautiful Pussy you are!"
The world has held great Heroes,
As history-books have showed; Pussy said to the Owl, "You elegant fowl!
But never a name to go down to fame "How charmingly sweet you sing!
Compared with that of Toad "O let us be married! too long we have tarried!
"But what shall we do for a ring?"
The clever men at Oxford They sailed away for a year and a day,
Know all that there is to be knowed. To the land where the Bong-tree grows,
But they none of them knew one half as much And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood,
As intelligent Mr. Toad! With a ring at the end of his nose,
His nose,
The animals sat in the Ark and cried, His nose,
Their tears in torrents flowed. With a ring at the end of his nose.
Who was it said, "There's land ahead?"
Encouraging Mr. Toad!
"Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one schilling
The Army all saluted "Your ring?" Said the Piggy, "I will."
As they marched along the road. So they took it away, and were married next day
Was it the King? Or Kitchener? By the Turkey who lives on the hill.
No. It was Mr. Toad! They dined on mince, and slices of quince,
Which they ate with a runcible spoon;
The Queen and her Ladies-in-waiting And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,
Sat at the window and sewed. They danced by the light of the moon,
She cried, "Look! who's that handsome man?" The moon,
They answered, "Mr. Toad." The moon,
They danced by the light of the moon.

How Do I Love Thee? (Sonnet 43)

Elizabeth Barrett Browning - 1806-1861
JERUSALEM (from 'Milton')
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. by: William Blake (1757-1827)
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight ND did those feet in ancient time
For the ends of being and ideal grace. Walk upon England's mountains green?
I love thee to the level of every day's And was the holy Lamb of God
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light. On England's pleasant pastures seen?
I love thee freely, as men strive for right.
I love thee purely, as they turn from praise. And did the Countenance Divine
I love thee with the passion put to use Shine forth upon our clouded hills?
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith. And was Jerusalem builded here
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose Among these dark Satanic Mills?
With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose, Bring me my bow of burning gold!
I shall but love thee better after death. Bring me my arrows of desire!
Bring me my spear! O clouds, unfold!
Bring me my chariot of fire!
The Owl and the Pussy-Cat
Edward Lear I will not cease from mental fight,
Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand,
The Owl and the Pussy-Cat went to sea Till we have built Jerusalem
In a beautiful pea-green boat, In England's green and pleasant land.
They took some honey, and plenty of money,
Wrapped up in a five-pound note. music written by Sir Hubert Parry in 1916. The famous
The Owl looked up to the stars above, orchestration was written by Sir Edward Elgar
And sang to a small guitar,
"O lovely Pussy! O Pussy, my love,
"What a beautiful Pussy you are,
"You are,
A Dream Within a Dream Annabel Lee
BY EDGAR ALLAN POE BY EDGAR ALLAN POE
Take this kiss upon the brow! It was many and many a year ago,
And, in parting from you now, In a kingdom by the sea,
Thus much let me avow — That a maiden there lived whom you may know
You are not wrong, who deem By the name of Annabel Lee;
That my days have been a dream; And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Yet if hope has flown away Than to love and be loved by me.
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none, I was a child and she was a child,
Is it therefore the less gone? In this kingdom by the sea,
All that we see or seem But we loved with a love that was more than love—
Is but a dream within a dream. I and my Annabel Lee—
With a love that the wingèd seraphs of Heaven
I stand amid the roar Coveted her and me.
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand And this was the reason that, long ago,
Grains of the golden sand — In this kingdom by the sea,
How few! yet how they creep A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
Through my fingers to the deep, My beautiful Annabel Lee;
While I weep — while I weep! So that her highborn kinsmen came
O God! Can I not grasp And bore her away from me,
Them with a tighter clasp? To shut her up in a sepulchre
O God! can I not save In this kingdom by the sea.
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,
But a dream within a dream? Went envying her and me—
Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
Life is Fine That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
By Langston hughes (1902-1967) Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.
I went down to the river,
I set down on the bank. But our love it was stronger by far than the love
I tried to think but couldn't, Of those who were older than we—
So I jumped in and sank. Of many far wiser than we—
I came up once and hollered! And neither the angels in Heaven above
I came up twice and cried! Nor the demons down under the sea
If that water hadn't a-been so cold Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
I might've sunk and died. Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
But it was Cold in that water! It was cold!
For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams
I took the elevator Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
Sixteen floors above the ground. And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes
I thought about my baby Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And thought I would jump down. And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
I stood there and I hollered! Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride,
I stood there and I cried! In her sepulchre there by the sea—
If it hadn't a-been so high In her tomb by the sounding sea.
I might've jumped and died.
But it was High up there! It was high!

So since I'm still here livin',

I guess I will live on.
I could've died for love—
But for livin' I was born
Though you may hear me holler,
And you may see me cry—
I'll be dogged, sweet baby,
If you gonna see me die.
Life is fine! Fine as wine! Life is fine!
The Raven Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—
BY EDGAR ALLAN POE Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before—
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore— Then the bird said “Nevermore.”
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door— “Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store
Only this and nothing more.” Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December; Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”
Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore— But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore— Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Nameless here for evermore. Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—
And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
“’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door— This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;— To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;
This it is and nothing more.” This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; She shall press, ah, nevermore!
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;— Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
Darkness there and nothing more. “Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath
sent thee
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before; Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”— “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—
Merely this and nothing more. Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before. Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”
“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice; Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;— “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!
’Tis the wind and nothing more!” By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore; Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he; Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door— “Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—
Perched, and sat, and nothing more. “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!
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”
“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore— And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!” On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.” And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore; Shall be lifted—nevermore!
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 the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Both Sides Now There he could reflect on the horrors he’s invented
Joni Mitchell And wander dark hallways, alone and tormented
Vincent is nice when his aunt comes to see him
Rows and floes of angel hair But imagines dipping her in wax for his wax museum
And ice cream castles in the air He likes to experiment on his dog Abercrombie
And feather canyons everywhere In the hopes of creating a horrible zombie
I've looked at clouds that way So he and his horrible zombie dog

But now they only block the sun His thoughts, though, aren’t only of ghoulish crimes
They rain and snow on everyone He likes to paint and read to pass some of the times
So many things I would have done While other kids read books like Go, Jane, Go!
But clouds got in my way Vincent’s favourite author is Edgar Allen Poe

I've looked at clouds from both sides now One night, while reading a gruesome tale
From up and down, and still somehow He read a passage that made him turn pale
It's cloud illusions I recall Such horrible news he could not survive
I really don't know clouds at all For his beautiful wife had been buried alive!
He dug out her grave to make sure she was dead
Moons and Junes and Ferris wheels Unaware that her grave was his mother’s flower bed
The dizzy dancing way you feel His mother sent Vincent off to his room
As every fairy tale comes real He knew he’d been banished to the tower of doom
I've looked at love that way Where he was sentenced to spend the rest of his life
Alone with the portrait of his beautiful wife
But now it's just another show While alone and insane encased in his tomb
You leave 'em laughing when you go Vincent’s mother burst suddenly into the room
And if you care, don't let them know She said: “If you want to, you can go out and play
Don't give yourself away It’s sunny outside, and a beautiful day”

I've looked at love from both sides now Vincent tried to talk, but he just couldn’t speak
From give and take, and still somehow The years of isolation had made him quite weak
It's love's illusions I recall So he took out some paper and scrawled with a pen:
I really don't know love at all “I am possessed by this house, and can never leave it again”
His mother said: “You’re not possessed, and you’re not almost dead
Tears and fears and feeling proud
To say "I love you" right out loud These games that you play are all in your head
Dreams and schemes and circus crowds You’re not Vincent Price, you’re Vincent Malloy
I've looked at life that way You’re not tormented or insane, you’re just a young boy
You’re seven years old and you are my son
But now old friends are acting strange I want you to get outside and have some real fun.”
They shake their heads, they say I've changed
Well something's lost, but something's gained Her anger now spent, she walked out through the hall
In living every day And while Vincent backed slowly against the wall
The room started to swell, to shiver and creak
I've looked at life from both sides now His horrid insanity had reached its peak
From win and lose and still somehow He saw Abercrombie, his zombie slave
It's life's illusions I recall And heard his wife call from beyond the grave
I really don't know life at all She spoke from her coffin and made ghoulish demands
While, through cracking walls, reached skeleton hands
I've looked at life from both sides now Every horror in his life that had crept through his dreams
From up and down and still somehow Swept his mad laughter to terrified screams!
It's life's illusions I recall
I really don't know life at all To escape the madness, he reached for the door
But fell limp and lifeless down on the floor
VINCENT – TIM BURTON His voice was soft and very slow
Vincent Malloy is seven years old As he quoted The Raven from Edgar Allen Poe:
He’s always polite and does what he’s told
For a boy his age, he’s considerate and nice “and my soul from out that shadow
But he wants to be just like Vincent Price that lies floating on the floor
… shall be lifted?
He doesn’t mind living with his sister, dog and cats Nevermore…”
Though he’d rather share a home with spiders and bats
1. The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock T.S. ELiot Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?
S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo, And I have known the eyes already, known them all— 55
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse. The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero, When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo. Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways? 60
LET us go then, you and I, And how should I presume?
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table; And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets, Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
The muttering retreats 5 (But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels Is it perfume from a dress 65
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells: That makes me so digress?
Streets that follow like a tedious argument Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
Of insidious intent And should I then presume?
To lead you to an overwhelming question…. 10 And how should I begin?
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?” . . . . . . . .
Let us go and make our visit. Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets 70
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
In the room the women come and go Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?…
Talking of Michelangelo.
I should have been a pair of ragged claws
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes, 15 Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes . . . . . . . .
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening, And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully! 75
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains, Smoothed by long fingers,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys, Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap, 20 Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
And seeing that it was a soft October night, Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep. Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis? 80
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
And indeed there will be time Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street, platter,
Rubbing its back upon the window panes; 25 I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
There will be time, there will be time I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet; And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
There will be time to murder and create, 85
And time for all the works and days of hands And in short, I was afraid.
That lift and drop a question on your plate; 30
Time for you and time for me, And would it have been worth it, after all,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions, After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
And for a hundred visions and revisions, Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Before the taking of a toast and tea. Would it have been worth while, 90
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
In the room the women come and go 35 To have squeezed the universe into a ball
Talking of Michelangelo. To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
And indeed there will be time Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”— 95
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?” If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Time to turn back and descend the stair, Should say: “That is not what I meant at all;
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair— 40 That is not it, at all.”
(They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”)
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin, And would it have been worth it, after all,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin— Would it have been worth while, 100
(They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”) After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
Do I dare 45 After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the
Disturb the universe? floor—
In a minute there is time And this, and so much more?—
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse. It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
For I have known them all already, known them all: 105
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, 50 Would it have been worth while
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons; If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
I know the voices dying with a dying fall And turning toward the window, should say:
 “That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.” Out of the huts of history's shame
. . . . . . . . 110 I rise
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be; Up from a past that's rooted in pain
Am an attendant lord, one that will do I rise
To swell a progress, start a scene or two, I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool, Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Deferential, glad to be of use, 115 Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
Politic, cautious, and meticulous; I rise
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse; Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous— I rise
Almost, at times, the Fool. Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I grow old … I grow old … 120 I rise
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled. I rise
I rise.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach. For the Fallen
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each. By Laurence Binyon

I do not think that they will sing to me. 125 With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,
England mourns for her dead across the sea.
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit,
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back Fallen in the cause of the free.
When the wind blows the water white and black. Solemn the drums thrill; Death august and royal
Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres,
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea There is music in the midst of desolation
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown 130 And a glory that shines upon our tears.
Till human voices wake us, and we drown. They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted;
STILL I RISE They fell with their faces to the foe.
By Maya Angelou They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
You may write me down in history Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
With your bitter, twisted lies, At the going down of the sun and in the morning
You may tread me in the very dirt We will remember them.
But still, like dust, I'll rise. They mingle not with their laughing comrades again;
They sit no more at familiar tables of home;
Does my sassiness upset you? They have no lot in our labour of the day-time;
Why are you beset with gloom? They sleep beyond England’s foam.
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells But where our desires are and our hopes profound,
Pumping in my living room. Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,
To the innermost heart of their own land they are known
Just like moons and like suns, As the stars are known to the Night;
With the certainty of tides, As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust,
Just like hopes springing high, Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain;
Still I'll rise. As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness,
To the end, to the end, they remain.
Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes? When you see Millons of the Mouthless Dead
Shoulders falling down like teardrops. By Charles SOrley
Weakened by my soulful cries. When you see millions of the mouthless dead
Across your dreams in pale battalions go,
Does my haughtiness offend you? Say not soft things as other men have said,
Don't you take it awful hard That you’ll remember. For you need not so.
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines Give them not praise. For, deaf, how should they know
Diggin' in my own back yard. It is not curses heaped on each gashed head?
Nor tears. Their blind eyes see not your tears flow.
You may shoot me with your words, Nor honour. It is easy to be dead.
You may cut me with your eyes, Say only this, ‘They are dead.’ Then add thereto,
You may kill me with your hatefulness, ‘Yet many a better one has died before.’
But still, like air, I'll rise. Then, scanning all the o’ercrowded mass, should you
Perceive one face that you loved heretofore,
Does my sexiness upset you? It is a spook. None wears the face you knew.
Does it come as a surprise Great death has made all his for evermore.
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?
Dreamers And thought how, as the day had come,
BY SIEGFRIED SASSOON The belfries of all Christendom
Soldiers are citizens of death's grey land, Had rolled along
Drawing no dividend from time's to-morrows. The unbroken song
In the great hour of destiny they stand, Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
Each with his feuds, and jealousies, and sorrows.
Soldiers are sworn to action; they must win Till ringing, singing on its way,
Some flaming, fatal climax with their lives. The world revolved from night to day,
Soldiers are dreamers; when the guns begin A voice, a chime,
They think of firelit homes, clean beds and wives. A chant sublime
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
I see them in foul dug-outs, gnawed by rats,
And in the ruined trenches, lashed with rain, Then from each black, accursed mouth
Dreaming of things they did with balls and bats, The cannon thundered in the South,
And mocked by hopeless longing to regain And with the sound
Bank-holidays, and picture shows, and spats, The carols drowned
And going to the office in the train.
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
It was as if an earthquake rent
MCMXIV (1964) The hearth-stones of a continent,
Phillip Larkin And made forlorn
The households born
Those long uneven lines Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
Standing as patiently
As if they were stretched outside And in despair I bowed my head;
The Oval or Villa Park, “There is no peace on earth," I said;
The crowns of hats, the sun “For hate is strong,
On moustached archaic faces And mocks the song
Grinning as if it were all Of peace on earth, good-will to men!”
An August Bank Holiday lark;
And the shut shops, the bleached Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
Established names on the sunblinds, “God is not dead, nor doth He sleep;
The farthings and sovereigns, The Wrong shall fail,
And dark-clothed children at play The Right prevail,
Called after kings and queens, With peace on earth, good-will to men.”
The tin advertisements
For cocoa and twist, and the pubs
Wide open all day;
And the countryside not caring:
The place-names all hazed over
With flowering grasses, and fields
Shadowing Domesday lines
Under wheat’s restless silence;
The differently-dressed servants
With tiny rooms in huge houses,
The dust behind limousines;
Never such innocence,
Never before or since,
As changed itself to past
Without a word – the men
Leaving the gardens tidy,
The thousands of marriages,
Lasting a little while longer:
Never such innocence again.

Christmas Bells
By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

I heard the bells on Christmas Day

Their old, familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet
The words repeat
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
 Letter to Mrs. Bixby
Sullivan Ballou Letter In the autumn of 1864 Massachusetts Governor John A. Andrew wrote
to President Lincoln asking him to express condolences to Mrs. Lydia
July 14, 1861 Bixby, a widow believed to have lost five sons during the Civil War.
Lincoln's letter to her was printed by the Boston Evening Transcript.
Camp Clark, Washington
My very dear Sarah: The indications are very strong that we shall
Executive Mansion,
move in a few days — perhaps tomorrow. Lest I should not be Washington, Nov. 21, 1864.
able to write again, I feel impelled to write a few lines that may Dear Madam,--
fall under your eye when I shall be no more … I have been shown in the files of the War Department a statement of
I have no misgivings about, or lack of confidence in the cause in the Adjutant General of Massachusetts that you are the mother of five
which I am engaged, and my courage does not halt or falter. I sons who have died gloriously on the field of battle.
know how strongly American Civilization now leans on the
triumph of the Government and how great a debt we owe to I feel how weak and fruitless must be any word of mine which should
attempt to beguile you from the grief of a loss so overwhelming. But I
those who went before us through the blood and sufferings of the
cannot refrain from tendering you the consolation that may be found
Revolution. And I am willing — perfectly willing — to lay down all
in the thanks of the Republic they died to save.
my joys in this life, to help maintain this Government, and to pay
that debt … I pray that our Heavenly Father may assuage the anguish of your
Sarah my love for you is deathless, it seems to bind me with bereavement, and leave you only the cherished memory of the loved
mighty cables that nothing but Omnipotence could break; and yet and lost, and the solemn pride that must be yours to have laid so costly
my love of Country comes over me like a strong wind and bears a sacrifice upon the altar of freedom.
me unresistibly on with all these chains to the battle field.
The memories of the blissful moments I have spent with you come Yours, very sincerely and respectfully,
creeping over me, and I feel most gratified to God and to you that
A. Lincoln
I have enjoyed them for so long. And hard it is for me to give them
up and burn to ashes the hopes of future years, when, God Featured in: Saving Private Ryan
willing, we might still have lived and loved together, and seen our
sons grown up to honorable manhood, around us. I have, I know, Mama Look Sharp
but few and small claims upon Divine Providence, but something From 1776
whispers to me — perhaps it is the wafted prayer of my little
Edgar, that I shall return to my loved ones unharmed. If I do not Momma, hey momma, Come lookin' for me
my dear Sarah, never forget how much I love you, and when my I'm here in the meadow, By the red maple tree
last breath escapes me on the battle field, it will whisper your
name. Forgive my many faults and the many pains I have caused Momma, hey momma, Look sharp, here I be
you. How thoughtless and foolish I have often times been! How Hey, hey, Momma, look sharp
gladly would I wash out with my tears every little spot upon your
happiness … Them soldiers, they fired, Oh, ma, did we run
But, O Sarah! If the dead can come back to this earth and flit But then we turned 'round, And the battle begun
unseen around those they loved, I shall always be near you; in the
gladdest days and in the darkest nights … always, always, and if Then I went under, Oh, ma, am I done?
there be a soft breeze upon your cheek, it shall be my breath, as Hey, hey, Momma, look sharp
the cool air fans your throbbing temple, it shall be my spirit
passing by. Sarah do not mourn me dead; think I am gone and My eyes are wide open, My face to the sky
wait for thee, for we shall meet again … Is that you I'm hearin', In the tall grass nearby?

Sullivan Ballou was killed a week later at the First Battle of Bull Momma, come find me, Before I do die
Run, July 21, 1861. Hey, hey, Momma, look sharp

Featured in Ken Burns The Civil War (All) I'll close your eyes, my Billy, Them eyes that cannot see
And I'll bury ya, my Billy, Beneath the maple tree

[COURIER]
And never again, Will you whisper to me
Hey, hey, Oh, Momma, look sharp
The Band Played Waltzing Matilda And the old men march slowly, old bones stiff and sore
Eric Bogle They're tired old heroes from a forgotten war
And the young people ask "What are they marching for?"
Now when I was a young man, I carried me pack, And I ask meself the same question.
And I lived the free life of a rover
From the Murray's green basin to the dusty outback, But the band plays Waltzing Matilda
Well, I waltzed my Matilda all over. And the old men still answer the call,
But as year follows year, more old men disappear
Then in 1915, my country said "Son, Someday no one will march there at all.
It's time you stopped rambling, there's work to be done".
So they gave me a tin hat, and they gave me a gun, Waltzing Matilda, Waltzing Matilda,
And they marched me away to the war. who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me?
And their ghosts may be heard as they march by that billabong
And the band played Waltzing Matilda Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me?
As the ship pulled away from the quay
And amidst all the cheers, the flag-waving and tears, Songwriters: John Mcdermott / Bobby Edwards / Eric Bugle
We sailed off for Gallipoli.

And how well I remember that terrible day,

How our blood stained the sand and the water
And of how in that hell that they called Suvla Bay,
We were butchered like lambs at the slaughter.

Johnny Turk he was waiting, he'd primed himself well

He showered us with bullets and he rained us with shell
And in five minutes flat, he'd blown us all to hell
Nearly blew us right back to Australia.

But the band played Waltzing Matilda,

When we stopped to bury our slain.
We buried ours, and the Turks buried theirs
Then we started all over again.

And those that were left, well we tried to survive,

In that mad world of blood, death and fire
And for ten weary weeks, I kept myself alive
Though around me the corpses piled higher

Then a big Turkish shell knocked me arse over head

And when I woke up in me hospital bed,
And saw what it had done, well I wished I was dead
Never knew there was worse things than dying.

For I'll go no more waltzing Matilda

All around the green bush far and free
To hump tent and pegs, a man needs both legs
No more waltzing Matilda for me.

So they gathered the crippled, the wounded, the maimed

And they shipped us back home to Australia
The legless, the armless, the blind, the insane
Those proud wounded heroes of Suvla

And as our ship pulled into Circular Quay,

I looked at the place where me legs used to be
And thank Christ there was nobody waiting for me
To grieve, to mourn, and to pity.

But the band played Waltzing Matilda

As they carried us down the gangway
But nobody cheered, they just stood and stared
Then they turned all their faces away.

And so now every April, I sit on me porch,

And I watch the parade pass before me.
And I see my old comrades, how proudly they march
Reviving old dreams of past glories