1. The Road Not TakenRobert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,And sorry I could not travel bothAnd be one traveler, long I stoodAnd looked down one as far as I couldTo where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fairAnd having perhaps the better claim,Because it was grassy and wanted wear;Though as for that, the passing thereHad worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally layIn leaves no step had trodden blackOh, I kept the first for another day!Yet knowing how way leads on to way,I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sighSomewhere ages and ages hence:Two roads diverged in a wood, and I -- I took the one less traveled by,And that has made all the difference.

2. Sign for My Father, Who Stressed the Bunt, David Bottoms

On the rough diamond,the hand-cut field below the dog lot and barn,we rehearsed the strict techniqueof bunting. I watched from the infield,the mound, the backstopas your left hand climbed the bat, your legsand shoulders squared toward the pitcher.You could drop it like a seeddown either base line. I admired your style,but not enough to take my eyes off the bankthat served as our center-field fence.

Years passed, three leagues of organized ball,no few lives. I could homerinto the garden beyond the bank,into the left-field lot Carmichael Motors,and still you stressed the same technique,the crouch and spring, the lead arm absorbingjust enough impact. That whole tiresome pitchabout basics never changing,and I never learned what you were laying down.

Like a hand brushed across the bill of a cap,let this be the signI'm getting a grip on the sacrifice.

3. INTRODUCTION TO POETRY By Billy Collins

I ask them to take a poemand hold it up to the lightlike a color slide

or press an ear against its hive.

I say drop a mouse into a poemand watch him probe his way out,

or walk inside the poem's roomand feel the walls for a light switch.

I want them to water-ski across the surface of a poemwaving at the author's name on the shore.

But all they want to dois tie the poem to a chair with ropeand torture a confession out of it.

They begin beating it with a hoseto find out what it really means.

4. Valentine for Ernest MannNaomi Shihab Nye

You can't order a poem like you order a taco.Walk up to the counter, say, "I'll take two"and expect it to be handed back to youon a shiny plate.

Still, I like your spirit.Anyone who says, "Here's my address,write me a poem," deserves something in reply.So I'll tell you a secret instead:

poems hide. In the bottoms of our shoes,they are sleeping. They are the shadowsdrifting across our ceilings the momentbefore we wake up. What we have to dois live in a way that lets us find them.

Once I knew a man who gave his wifetwo skunks for a valentine.He couldn't understand why she was crying."I thought they had such beautiful eyes."And he was serious. He was a serious manwho lived in a serious way. Nothing was uglyjust because the world said so. He reallyliked those skunks. So, he re-invented themas valentines and they became beautiful.At least, to him. And the poems that had been hidingin the eyes of skunks for centuriescrawled out and curled up at his feet.

Maybe if we re-invent whatever our lives give uswe find poems. Check your garage, the odd sockin your drawer, the person you almost like, but not quite.And let me know.

5. “AMBITION”By Morris Bishop

I got pocketed behind 7X-3824;He was making 65, but I can do a little more.I crowded him on the curves, but I couldn’t get past.And on the straightaways there was always some truck coming fast.Then we got to the top of a mile-long inclineand I edged her out to the left, a little over the white line,And ahead was a long grade with construction at the bottom,And I said to the wife, “Now by golly I got’m!”I bet I did 85 going down the long grade,And I braked her down hard in front of the Barricade,And swung in ahead of him and landed fineBehind 9W-7679.

6. Mother to Sonby Langston Hughes

Well, son, I'll tell you:Life for me ain't been no crystal stair.It's had tacks in it,And splinters,And boards torn up,And places with no carpet on the floor-Bare.But all the timeI'se been a-climbin' on, And reachin'landin's,And turnin'corners,And sometimes goin' in the dark Where there ain't been no light.So boy, don't you turn back.Don't you set down on the steps'Cause you finds it's kinder hard.Don't you fall now--

For I'se still goin', honey,I'se still climbin',And life for me ain't been no crystal stair.

7. The Lady's Rewardby Dorothy Parker

Lady, lady, never startConversation toward your heart;Keep your pretty words serene;Never murmur what you mean.Show yourself, by word and look,Swift and shallow as a brook.Be as cool and quick to goAs a drop of April snow;Be as delicate and gayAs a cherry flower in May.Lady, lady, never speakOf the tears that burn your cheek-She will never win him, whoseWords had shown she feared to lose.Be you wise and never sad,You will get your lovely lad.Never serious be, nor true,And your wish will come to you-And if that makes you happy, kid,You'll be the first it ever did.

8. The Spider's Web (Natural History)by E.B White

The spider dropping down from twigUnfolds a plan of her devisingA thin premeditated rigTo use in rising.

And all that journey down from space,In cool descent and loyal heartedShe spins a ladder to the placeFrom where she started.

Thus I, gone forth as spiders doIn spider's web a truth discerning,

Attach one silken strand to youFor my returning.

9. “Driving to Town Late to Mail A Letter”

by Robert Bly It is a cold and snowy night. The main street is deserted.The only things moving are swirls of snow.As I lift the mailbox door, I feel the cold iron,There is a privacy I love in this snowy night.Driving around, I will waste more time.

A prayer for the twenty-first centuryby John Marsden

May the road be free for the journey,May it lead where it promised it wouldMay the stars that gave ancient bearingsBe seen, still be understood.

May every aircraft fly safely,May every traveller be found,May sailors in crossing the oceanNot hear the cries of the drowned.

May gardens be wild like jungles,May nature never be tamed,May dangers create of us heroes,May fears always have names.

May the mountains stand to remind usOf what it means to be young,May we be outlived by our daughters,May we be outlived by our sons.

May the bombs rust away in the bunkers,And the doomsday clock not be rewound,May the solitary scientists, working,Remember the holes in the ground.

May the knife remain in the holder,May the bullet stay in the gun,May those who live in the shadowsBe seen by those in the sun.

10. Waltzing the SpheresSusan Scott Thompson

We pulled each other closer in the turnaround a center that we could not see-This holding on was what I had to learn.

The sun can hold the planets, earth the moon,but we had to create our gravityby always pulling closer in the turn.Each revolution caused my head to whirlso dizzily I wanted to break free,but holding on was what I had to learn.

I fixed my eyes on something out there firm,and then our orbit steadied so that wecould pull each other closer in the turn.

The joy that circles with us round the curveis joy that passes surely as a peace,and holding on is what we have to learn.

And if our feet should briefly leave the earth,no matter, earth was made for us to leave,and arms for pulling closer in the turn - This holding on is what we have to learn.

11. Wynken, Blynken, and Nod (Dutch Lullaby)by Eugene Field (1850-1895)

Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night Sailed off in a wooden shoe---

Sailed on a river of crystal light,Into a sea of dew."Where are you going, and what do you wish?"The old moon asked the three."We have come to fish for the herring fishThat live in this beautiful sea;Nets of silver and gold have we!"Said Wynken,Blynken,And Nod.

The old moon laughed and sang a song,As they rocked in the wooden shoe,And the wind that sped them all night longRuffled the waves of dew.The little stars were the herring fishThat lived in that beautiful sea---"Now cast your nets wherever you wish---Never afeard are we";So cried the stars to the fishermen three:Wynken,Blynken,And Nod.

All night long their nets they threwTo the stars in the twinkling foam---Then down from the skies came the wooden shoe,Bringing the fishermen home;'T was all so pretty a sail it seemedAs if it could not be,And some folks thought 't was a dream they 'd dreamedOf sailing that beautiful sea---But I shall name you the fishermen three:Wynken,Blynken,And Nod.

Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes,And Nod is a little head,And the wooden shoe that sailed the skiesIs a wee one's trundle-bed.So shut your eyes while mother singsOf wonderful sights that be,And you shall see the beautiful things

As you rock in the misty sea,Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three:Wynken,Blynken,And Nod

12. Maybe Dats Youwr Pwoblem Tooby Jim Hall

All my powblemswho knows, maybe evwybody's pwoblemsis due to da fact, due to da awful twuthdat I am SPIDERMAN.

I know, I know. All da dumb jokes:No flies on you, ha ha,and da ones about what do I do wit alldoze extwa legs in bed. Well, dat's funny yeah.But you twy being SPIDERMAN for a month or two. Go ahead.

You get doze cwazy calls fwom daGubbener askin you to twap some booglar who'sonly twying to wip off color TV sets.Now, what do I cawre about TV sets?But I pull on da suit, da stinkin suit,wit dasucker cups on da fingers,and get my wopes and wittle bundle of equipment and den I go flying like cwazyacwoss da town fwom woof top to woof top.Till der he is, some poor dumb color TV sloband I fall on him and we westle a widdle

Until I get him all woped. So big deal.

You tink when you SPIDERMANder's sometin big going to happen to you.Well, I tell you what. It don't happen dat way.Nuttin happens. Gubbener calls, I go. Bwing him to pwice. Gubbener calls again,like dat over and over.

I tink I twy sometin diffunt. I tink I twysometin excitin like wacing cawrs. Sometin to makemy heart beat at a difwent wate. But den you just can't quit being sometin likeSPIDERMAN.You SPIDERMAN for life. Fowever. I can't evenbuin my suit. It won't buin. It's fwame wesistent.So maybe dat's youwr pwoblem too, who knows.So maybe dat's da whole pwoblem wif evwytin. Nobody can buin der suits, day all fwame wesistent.Who knows

13. Why I Read by Richard Peck

I read because one life isn't enough, and in the pages of a book I can be anybody; I read because the words that build the story become mine, to build my life; I read not for happy endings but for new beginnings, I'm just beginning myself and I woudn't mind a map; I read because I have friends who don't, and young though they are, they are beginning to run out of material; I read because every journey begins at the library, and it's time for me to start packing I read because one of these days I may want to leave this town, and I'm going to go everywhere and meet everybody, and I want to be READY !

14. The Millionth Circle by Leia Sandmann (age 12)

Rippling outwardIntwinkling vibrationsFlickering under the silentOrb of the moonThe stars giddyWith the sight of countless circlesThe fish smile A mere kiss can cause a million circles 15. Books by Billy Collins

From the heart of this dark, evacuated campus I can hear the library humming in the night, a choir of authors murmuring inside their books

along the unlit, alphabetical shelves, Giovanni Pontano next to Pope, Dumas next to his son, each one stitched into his own private coat, together forming a low, gigantic chord of language. I picture a figure in the act of reading, shoes on a desk, head tilted into the wind of a book, a man in two worlds, holding the rope of his tie as the suicide of lovers saturates a page, or lighting a cigarette in the middle of a theorem. He moves from paragraph to paragraph as if touring a house of endless, paneled rooms. I hear the voice of my mother reading to me from a chair facing the bed, books about horses and dogs, and inside her voice lie other distant sounds, the horrors of a stable ablaze in the night, a bark that is moving toward the brink of speech. I watch myself building bookshelves in college, walls within walls, as rain soaks New England, or standing in a bookstore in a trench coat, I see all of us reading ourselves away from ourselves, straining in circles of light to find more light until the line of words becomes a trail of crumbs that we follow across a page of fresh snow; when evening is shadowing the forest and small birds flutter down to consume the crumbs, we have to listen hard to hear the voices of the boy and his sister receding into the woods.

16. Ozymandiasby: Percy Bysshe ShelleyI met a traveler from an antique landWho said: `Two vast and trunkless legs of stoneStand 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 readWhich 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 beside remains. Round the decayOf that colossal wreck, boundless and bareThe lone and level sands stretch far away.'

17. Wild Geese

You do not have to be good.You do not have to walk on your kneesfor a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.You only have to let the soft animal of your body

love what it loves.Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.Meanwhile the world goes on.Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rainare moving across the landscapes,over the prairies and the deep trees,the mountains and the rivers.Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,are heading home again.Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,the world offers itself to your imagination,calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting --over and over announcing your placein the family of things.

-- Mary Oliver

from House of Light (1990)

18. MY MOTHER PIECED QUILTS by Teresa Paloma Acosta

They were just meant as covers, in winters as weapons against pounding January winds.

But it was just that every morning I awoke to these October ripened canvases, passed my hand across their cloth faces and began to wonder how you pieced all these together- - these strips of gentle Communion cotton and flannel nightgowns, wedding organdies, dime store velvets.

How you shaped patterns- - square and oblong and round, positioned, balanced, then cemented them with your thread, a steel needle, a thimble.

How the thread darted in and out galloping along the frayed edges, tucking them in as you did us at night. Oh, how you stretched and turned and re-arranged your Michigan spring faded curtain pieces, my father's Santa Fe work shirt, the summer denims, the tweed of fall.

In the evening you sat at your canvas.

Our cracked linoleum floor - - the drawing board.

me lounging on your arm, and you staking out the plan; whether to put the lilac-purple-of-Easter against the red plaid of winter-going- into-spring, whether to mix a yellow with blue and white and paint the Corpus Christi noon when my father held your hand, whether to shape a five-point star from the somber black silk you wore to Grandmother's funeral.

You were the river current, carrying the roaring notes, forming them into pictures of a little boy reclining, a swallow flying. You were the caravan master at the reins, driving your thread needle artillery across the mosaic cloth bridges, delivering yourself in separate testimonies. Oh, Mother, you plunged me sobbing and laughing into our past, into the river crossing at five, into the spinach fields, into the Plainview cotton rows, into tuberculosis wards, into braids and muslin dresses,

sewn hard and taut to withstand the thrashings of twenty-five years.

Stretched out they lay

armed/ready/shouting/celebrating.

Knotted with love,

the quilts sing on.

19. Stopping by Woods on a Snowy EveningBy Robert Lee Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know.His house is in the village, though;He will not see me stopping hereTo watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it's queerTo stop without a farmhouse nearBetween the woods and frozen lakeThe darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shakeTo ask if there's some mistake.The only other sound's the sweepOf 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.

20. Camomile Tea by: Katherine Mansfield

Outside the sky is light with stars;There's a hollow roaring from the sea.And, alas! for the little almond flowers,The wind is shaking the almond tree.

How little I thought, a year ago,In the horrible cottage upon the LeeThat he and I should be sitting soAnd sipping a cup of camomile tea.

Light as feathers the witches fly,The horn of the moon is plain to see;By a firefly under a jonquil flowerA goblin toasts a bumble-bee.

We might be fifty, we might be five,So snug, so compact, so wise are we!Under the kitchen-table legMy knee is pressing against his knee.

Our shutters are shut, the fire is low,The tap is dripping peacefully;The saucepan shadows on the wallAre black and round and plain to see.

21. A Poison Tree by: William Blake

I was angry with my friend:I told my wrath, my wrath did end.I was angry with my foe:I told it not, my wrath did grow.And I watered it in fears,Night and morning with my tears;And I sunned it with smiles,And with soft deceitful wiles.And it grew both day and night,Till it bore an apple bright.And my foe beheld it shine.And he knew that it was mine,And into my garden stoleWhen the night had veiled the pole;In the morning glad I seeMy foe outstretched beneath the tree.

22. Numbers by Mary Cornish

I like the generosity of numbers.The way, for example,they are willing to countanything or anyone:two pickles, one door to the room,eight dancers dressed as swans.

I like the domesticity of addition--add two cups of milk and stir--the sense of plenty: six plumson the ground, three morefalling from the tree.And multiplication's schoolof fish times fish,whose silver bodies breed

beneath the shadowof a boat.Even subtraction is never loss,just addition somewhere else:five sparrows take away two,the two in someone else'sgarden now.There's an amplitude to long division,as it opens Chinese take-outbox by paper box,inside every folded cookiea new fortune.

And I never fail to be surprisedby the gift of an odd remainder,footloose at the end:forty-seven divided by eleven equals four,with three remaining.Three boys beyond their mothers' call,two Italians off to the sea,one sock that isn't anywhere you look

23. I'm A Fool To Love You Cornelius Eady

Some folks will tell you the blues is a woman,Some type of supernatural creature.My mother would tell you, if she could,About her life with my father,A strange and sometimes cruel gentleman.She would tell you about the choicesA young black woman faces.Is falling in love with some manA deal with the devilIn blue terms, the tongue we useWhen we don't want nuanceTo get in the way,When we need to talk straight.My mother chooses my fatherAfter choosing a manWho was, as we sing it,Of no account.This man made my father look good,That's how bad it was.He made my father seem like an islandIn the middle of a stormy sea,He made my father look like a rock.And is the blues the moment you

realizeYou exist in a stacked deck,You look in a mirror at your young face,The face my sister carries,And you know it's the only leverageYou've got.Does this create a hurt that whispersHow you going to do?Is the blues the momentYou shrug your shouldersAnd agree, a girl without moneyIs nothing, dustTo be pushed around by any old breeze.Compared to this,My father seems, briefly,To be a fire escape.This is the way the blues worksIts sorry wonders,Makes trouble look likeA feather bed,Makes the wrong man's kissesA healing.

24. praise song

Lucille Clifton

to my aunt blanchewho rolled from grass to drivewayinto the street one sunday morning.i was ten.      i had never seena human woman hurl her basketballof a body into the traffic of the world.Praise to the drivers who stopped in

time.Praise to the faith with which she roseafter some moments then slowly walkedsighing back to her family.Praise to the arms which understoodlittle or nothing of what it meantbut welcomed her in without judgment,

accepting it all like children might,like God.

25. Fault Ron Koertge *

In the airport bar, I tell my mother not to worry.No one ever tripped and fell into the San AndreasFault. But as she dabs at her dry eyes, I rememberthose old movies where the earth does open.There's always one blonde entomologist, fourdeceitful explorers, and a pilot who's good-lookingbut not smart enough to take off his leather jacketin the jungle.Still, he and Dr. Cutie Bug are the only oneswho survive the spectacular quake becausethey spent their time making plans to go backto the Mid-West and live near his parentswhile the others wanted to steal the gold and ivory

then move to Los Angeles where they would rarelycall their mothers and almost never fly homeand when they did for only a few days at a time.

26. The Blue Bowl

Jane Kenyon

Like primitives we buried the catwith his bowl. Bare-handedwe scraped sand and gravelback into the hole.                               They fell with a hissand thud on his side,on his long red fur, the white feathersbetween his toes, and hislong, not to say aquiline, nose.We stood and brushed each other off.There are sorrows keener than these.Silent the rest of the day, we worked,ate, stared, and slept. It stormedall night; now it clears, and a robinburbles from a dripping bushlike the neighbor who means wellbut always says the wrong thing.

27. The Mending Wall By Robert Frost

Something there is that doesn't love a wall, That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it, And spills the upper boulders in the sun, And makes gaps even two can pass abreast. The work of hunters is another thing: I have come after them and made repair Where they have left not one stone on a stone, But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,

To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean, No one has seen them made or heard them made, But at spring mending-time we find them there. I let my neighbor know beyond the hill;

And on a day we meet to walk the line And set the wall between us once again. We keep the wall between us as we go.

To each the boulders that have fallen to each.

And some are loaves and some so nearly balls We have to use a spell to make them balance: 'Stay where you are until our backs are turned!' We wear our fingers rough with handling them. Oh, just another kind of out-door game, One on a side. It comes to little more: There where it is we do not need the wall: He is all pine and I am apple orchard. My apple trees will never get across And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him. He only says, 'Good fences make good neighbors'. Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder If I could put a notion in his head: 'Why do they make good neighbors? Isn't it Where there are cows? But here there are no cows.

Before I built a wall I'd ask to know What I was walling in or walling out, And to whom I was like to give offence.

Something there is that doesn't love a wall, That wants it down.' I could say 'Elves' to him, But it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather

He said it for himself. I see him there Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed. He moves in darkness as it seems to me~ Not of woods only and the shade of trees. He will not go behind his father's saying, And he likes having thought of it so well He says again, "Good fences make good neighbors."

28. IN A STATION OF THE METRO

The apparition of these faces in the crowd;Petals on a wet, black bough.

Ezra Pound

29. FOG

The fog comeson little cat feet.

It sits lookingover harbor and cityon silent haunchesand then moves on.

30. The Man he Killed by Thomas Hardy

1             "Had he and I but met2             By some old ancient inn,3     We should have sat us down to wet4             Right many a nipperkin!

5            "But ranged as infantry,6             And staring face to face,7     I shot at him as he at me,8             And killed him in his place.

9            "I shot him dead because --10           Because he was my foe,11   Just so: my foe of course he was;12           That's clear enough; although

13          "He thought he'd 'list, perhaps,14           Off-hand like -- just as I --15   Was out of work -- had sold his traps --16           No other reason why.

17          "Yes; quaint and curious war is!18           You shoot a fellow down19   You'd treat if met where any bar is,20           Or help to half-a-crown."

31. A narrow Fellow in the Grass [cc]

A NARROW Fellow in the Grass Occasionally rides-- You may have met Him--did you not His notice sudden is-- The Grass divides as with a Comb-- A spotted shaft is seen-- And then it closes at your feet And opens further on-- He likes a Boggy Acre A Floor too cool for Corn-- Yet when a Boy, and Barefoot--

I more than once at noon Have passed, I thought, a Whip lash, Unbraiding in the Sun When stooping to secure it It wrinkled, and was gone-- Several of Nature's People I know, and they know me-- I feel for them a transport Of cordiality-- But never met this Fellow, Attended or alone Without a tighter breathing And Zero at the Bone. Emily Dickinson

32. I'm Nobody! Who are you? [cc]

I'M Nobody! Who are you? Are you--Nobody--too? Then there's a pair of us! Don’t tell! they'd advertise--you know! How dreary--to be--Somebody! How public--like a Frog-- To tell your name--the livelong June-- To an admiring Bog!

Emily Dickinson (1858)

33. To a Mouse

On Turning Her Up in Her Nest with the Plough, November 1785

Wee, sleekit, cowrin, 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, An' never miss't!

Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin! It's 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 an' wast, An' weary Winter comin fast, An' cozie here, beneath the blast, Thou thought to dwell-- Till crash! the cruel coulter past Out thro' thy cell. That wee-bit heap o' leaves an' stibble,

Has cost thee monie a weary nibble! Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble, But house or hald. To thole the Winter's sleety dribble, An' cranreuch cauld! But Mousie, thou are no thy lane, In proving foresight may be vain: The best laid schemes o' Mice an' Men, Gang aft agley, An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,

For promis'd joy! Still, thou art blest, compar'd wi' me! The present only toucheth thee:

But och! I backward cast my e'e,

On prospects drear! An' forward, tho' I canna see,

I guess an' fear!

34. Because I could not stop for Death-- [cc]

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

Emily Dickinson

35. 'OUT, OUT--' by Robert Frost

The buzz-saw snarled and rattled in the yardAnd made dust and dropped stove-length sticks of wood,Sweet-scented stuff when the breeze drew across it.And from there those that lifted eyes could countFive mountain ranges one behind the otherUnder the sunset far into Vermont.

And the saw snarled and rattled, snarled and rattled,As it ran light, or had to bear a load.And nothing happened: day was all but done.Call it a day, I wish they might have saidTo please the boy by giving him the half hourThat a boy counts so much when saved from work.His sister stood beside them in her apronTo tell them 'Supper'. At the word, the saw,As if to prove saws knew what supper meant,Leaped out at the boy's hand, or seemed to leap--He must have given the hand. However it was,Neither refused the meeting. But the hand!The boy's first outcry was a rueful laugh.As he swung toward them holding up the hand

Half in appeal, but half as if to keepThe life from spilling. Then the boy saw all--Since he was old enough to know, big boyDoing a man's work, though a child at heart--He saw all spoiled. 'Don't let him cut my hand offThe doctor, when he comes. Don't let him, sister!'So. But the hand was gone already.The doctor put him in the dark of ether.He lay and puffed his lips out with his breath.And then -- the watcher at his pulse took fright.No one believed. They listened at his heart.Little -- less -- nothing! -- and that ended it.No more to build on there. And they, since theyWere not the one dead, turned to their affairs

36. THE RUNAWAY by Robert Frost

Once when the snow of the year was beginning to fall,We stopped by a mountain pasture to say 'Whose colt?'A little Morgan had one forefoot on the wall,The other curled at his breast. He dipped his headAnd snorted at us. And then he had to bolt.We heard the miniature thunder where he fled,And we saw him, or thought we saw him, dim and grey,Like a shadow against the curtain of falling flakes.'I think the little fellow's afraid of the snow.He isn't winter-broken. It isn't playWith the little fellow at all. He's running away.I doubt if even his mother could tell him, "Sakes,It's only weather". He'd think she didn't know !Where is his mother? He can't be out alone.'And now he comes again with a clatter of stoneAnd mounts the wall again with whited

eyesAnd all his tail that isn't hair up straight.He shudders his coat as if to throw off flies.'Whoever it is that leaves him out so late,When other creatures have gone to stall and bin,Ought to be told to come and take him in.'

37. I Can't Write a Poem

Forget it. You must be kidding. I'm still half asleep. My eyes keep closing. My brain isn't working. I don't have a pencil. I don't have any paper. My desk is wobbly. I don't know what to write about. And besides, I don't even know how to write a poem. I've got a headache. I need to see the nurse. Time's up? Uh oh! All I have is this dumb list of excuses. You like it? Really? No kidding. Thanks a lot. Would you like to see another one?

-Bruce Lansky

38. Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night

Dylan Thomas

Do not go gentle into that good night,Old age should burn and rave at close of day;Rage, rage against the dying of the light.Though Wise men at their end know dark is right,Because their words had forked no lightning theyDo not so gentle into that good night.Good men, the last wave by, crying how brightTheir 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 sightBlind 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

39. "All I Wanna Do"Sheryl Crow, Tuesday Night Music Club

Hit it!This ain't no disco

It ain't no country club eitherThis is LA!

"All I wanna do is have a little fun before I die,"

Says the man next to me out of nowhere

It's apropos of nothingHe says his name's William but I'm

sureHe's Bill or Billy or Mac or Buddy

And he's plain ugly to meAnd I wonder if he's ever had a day of

fun in his whole lifeWe are drinking beer at noon on

TuesdayIn a bar that faces a giant car washThe good people of the world are

washing their carsOn their lunch break, hosing and

scrubbingAs best they can in skirts in suits

They drive their shiny Datsuns and Buicks

Back to the phone company, the record store too

Well, they're nothing like Billy and me,

cause

All I wanna do is have some funI got a feeling I'm not the only one

All I wanna do is have some funI got a feeling I'm not the only one

All I wanna do is have some funUntil the sun comes up over Santa

Monica Boulevard

I like a good beer buzz early in the morning

And Billy likes to peel the labelsFrom his bottles of Bud

He shreds them on the barThen he lights every match in an

oversized packLetting each one burn down to his

thick fingersBefore blowing and cursing them outAnd he's watching the bottles of Bud

as they spin on the floorAnd a happy couple enters the barDangerously close to one another

The bartender looks up from his want ads

All I wanna do is have some funI got a feeling I'm not the only one

All I wanna do is have some funI got a feeling I'm not the only one

All I wanna do is have some funUntil the sun comes up over Santa

Monica Boulevard

Otherwise the bar is ours,The day and the night and the car

wash tooThe matches and the Buds and the

clean and dirty carsThe sun and the moon but

All I wanna do is have some fun

I got a feeling I'm not the only oneAll I wanna do is have some fun

I got a feeling I'm not the only oneAll I wanna do is have some fun

Until the sun comes up over Santa Monica Boulevard

40. The Long and Winding Road

Writer, lead vocal: Paul McCartney

 The long and winding road that leads to your door, Will never disappear, I've seen that road before It always leads me here, Leads me to your door.

The wild and windy night the rain washed away, Has left a pool of tears crying for the day. Why leave me standing here, let me know the way Many times I've been alone and many times I've cried Anyway you'll never know the many ways I've tried, but Still they lead me back to the long and winding road You left me standing here a long, long time ago Don't leave me waiting here, lead me to you door Da, da, da, da

41. Yesterday

Writer, lead vocal: Paul McCartney

 Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far awayNow it looks as though they're here to stayOh, I believe in yesterday.Suddenly, I'm not half to man I used to be,There's a shadow hanging over me.Oh, yesterday came suddenly. Why she had to go I don't know she wouldn't say.I said something wrong, now I long for yesterday. Yesterday, love was such an easy game to play.Now I need a place to hide away.Oh, I believe in yesterday.

Why she had to go I don't know she wouldn't say.I said something wrong, now I long for yesterday.

Yesterday, love was such an easy game to play.Now I need a place to hide away.Oh, I believe in yesterday. Mm mm mm mm mm mm mm.

42. Let It Be

Writer, lead vocal: Paul McCartney

 When I find myself in times of trouble Mother Mary comes to me Speaking words of wisdom, let it be. And in my hour of darkness She is standing right in front of me Speaking words of wisdom, let it be. Let it be, let it be, let it be, let it be.Whisper words of wisdom, let it be.And when the broken hearted peopleLiving in the world agree,There will be an answer, let it be.For though they may be parted there isStill a chance that they will seeThere will be an answer, let it be.Let it be, let it be, let it be, let it be.There will be an answer, let it be.Let it be, let it be, let it be, let it be.Whisper words of wisdom, let it be. Let it be, let it be, let it be, yeah let it be.Whisper words of wisdom, let it be. And when the night is cloudy,There is still a light that shines on me,Shine on until tomorrow, let it be.I wake up to the sound of musicMother Mary comes to meSpeaking words of wisdom, let it be.Let it be, let it be, let it be, yeah let it be.There will be an answer, let it be.Let it be, let it be, let it be, yeah let it be.There will be an answer, let it be.Let it be, let it be, let it be, yeah let it be.Whisper words of wisdom, let it be

43. THE RAVENby Edgar Allan Poe

(1845)

   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 some one 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 for evermore.    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 that 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 somewhat 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 thy 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 blest 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.

   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 fancy 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."    This 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, oh 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 in 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!

-- THE END

44. A Loaf of Poetryby Naoshi Koriyama

you mix the doughof experiencewiththe yeastof inspirationand knead it wellwith loveand pound itwith all your mightand thenleave ituntilit puffs out bigwith its own inner forceand thenknead it againandshape itinto a round formand bake it

in the ovenof your heart.

45. Unfolding Bud

by Naoshi Koriyama One is amazed By a water-lily bud Unfolding With each passing day, Taking on a richer color And new dimensions. One is not amazed, At a first glance, By a poem, Which is as tight-closed As a tiny bud. Yet one is surprised To see the poem Gradually unfolding, Revealing its rich inner self, As one reads it Again And over again.

46. How to Eat a Poem by Eve Merriam

Don't be polite. Bite in. Pick it up with your fingers and lick the juice that may run down your chin. It is ready and ripe now, whenever you are. You do not need a knife or fork or spoon or plate or napkin or tablecloth. For there is not core or stem or rind or pit or seed to throw away.

47. STEAM SHOVEL

The dinosaurs are not all dead.I saw on raise its iron head.To watch me walking down the road.Beyond our house today.It jaws were dripping with a load.It must have heard me where I stopped,Snorted white steam my way,And stretched its long neck out to see,And chewed, and grinned quite amiably.

BY Charles Malam

48. The Builders

I told them a thousand times if I told them once: Stop fooling around, I said, with straw and sticks; They won't hold up; you're taking an awful chance. Brick is the stuff to build with, solid bricks. You want to be impractical, go ahead. But just remember, I told them; wait and see. You're making a big mistake.  Awright, I said,

The funny thing is, they didn't.  There they sat, One in his crummy yellow shack, and one Under his roof of twigs, and the wolf ate Them, hair and hide.  Well, what is done is done. But I'd been willing to help them, all along,

If only they'd once admitted they were wrong.

Sara Henderson Hay

49. Arithmetic

Carl Sandburg

Arithmetic is where numbers fly like pigeons in and out of your head.Arithmetic tells you how many you lose or win if you know how many you had before    you lost or won.Arithmetic is seven eleven all good children go to heaven-or five six bundle of sticks.Arithmetic is numbers you squeeze from your head to your hand to your pencil to your    paper till you get the answer.Arithmetic is where the answer is right and everything is nice and you can look out of    the window and see the blue sky-or the answer is wrong and you have to start all    over and try again and see how it comes out this time.If you take a number and double it and double it again and then double it a few more    times, the number gets bigger and bigger and goes higher and higher and only     arithmetic can tell you what the number is when you     decide to quit doubling.Arithmetic is where you have to multiply-and you carry the multiplication table in your    head and hope you won't lose it.If you have two animal crackers, one good and one bad, and you eat one and a striped     zebra with streaks all over him eats the other, how many animal crackers will you     have if somebody offers you five six seven and you say No no no and you say Nay     nay nay and you say Nix nix nix?If you ask your mother for one fried egg for breakfast and she gives you two fried eggs     and you eat both of them, who is better in arithmetic, you or your mother?

50. The Microscope by Maxine Kumin

Anton Leeuwenhoek was Dutch. He sold pincushions, cloth, and such.The waiting townsfolk fumed and fussed.As Anton's dry goods gathered dust.

He worked, instead of tending store, At grinding special lenses forA microscope. Some of the thingsHe looked at were:mosquitoes' wings,the hairs of sheep, the legs of lice,the skin of people, dogs, and mice;ox eyes, spiders's spinning gear,fishes' scales, a little smearof his own blood,and best of all,the unknown, busy, very smallbugs that swim and bump and hopinside a simple water drop.

Impossible! Most Dutchmen said.This Anton's crazy in the head. We ought to ship him off to Spain.He says he's seen a housefly's brain.He says the water that we drinkIs full of bugs. He's mad, we think!

They called him dumkopf, which means dope.That's how we got the microscope.

51. Superman

By John Updike

I drive my car to supermarket,

The way I take is superhigh,

A superlot is where I park it,

And Super Suds are what I buy.

Supersalesmen sell me tonic—

Super-Tone-O, for Relief.

The planes I ride are supersonic,

In trains, I like the Super Chief.

Supercillious men and women

Call me superficial—me,

Who so superbly learned to swim in

Supercolossality.

Superphosphate fed foods feed me;

Superservice keeps me new,

Who would dare to supersede me,

Super-super-superwho?

52. Sonic Boom

By John Updike

I’m sitting in the living room,

When, up above, the Thump of Doom

Resounds. Relax. It’s sonic boom.

The ceiling shudders at the clap,

The mirrors tilt, the rafters snap,

And Baby wakens from his nap.

“Hush, babe. Some pilot we equip,

Giving the speed of sound the slip.

Has cracked the air like a penny whip.”

Our world is far from frightening; I

No longer strain to read the sky

Where moving fingers (jet planes) fly,

Our world seems much too tame to

die.

And it if does, with one more pop,

I shan’t look up to see it drop.

53. Southbound On The Freeway

A tourist came from Orbitville,Parked in the air, and said:The creatures of this starAre made of metal and glass.Through their transparent partsYou can see their guts.Their feet are round and rollOn diagrams – or longMeasuring tapes – darkWith white lines.They have four eyesThe two at the back are red.Sometimes you can see a five – eyedOne, with a red eye turningOn the top of his headHe must be special –The others respect himAnd go slow,When he passes, windingAmong them from behind.They all hiss as they glide,Like inches, down the markedTapes. These soft shapes,Shadowy insideThe hard bodies – are theyTheir guts or their brains?

May Swenson

54. The Base Stealer

Poised between going on and back, pulledBoth ways taut like a tight-rope walker,Fingertips pointing the opposites,Now bouncing tiptoe like a dropped ball,Or a kid skipping rope, come on, come on!Running a scattering of steps sidewise,How he teeters, skitters, tingles, teases,Taunts them, hovers like an ecstatic bird,He's only flirting, crowd him, crowd him,Delicate, delicate, delicate, delicate - Now! 

----Robert Francis

55. Dreams

Hold fast to dreamsFor if dreams die

Life is a broken-winged birdThat cannot fly

Hold fast to dreamsFor if dreams go

Life is a barren fieldFrozen with snow.

Langston Hughes

56. Foul Shot

With two 60's stuck on the scoreboard

And two seconds hanging on the clock,

The solemn boy in the center of eyes,

Squeezed by silence,

Seeks out the line with his feeeet,

Soothes his hands along his uniform,

Gently drums the ball against the floor,

Then measures the waiting net,

Raises the ball on his right hand,

Balances it with fingertips,

Breathes,

Crouches,

Waits,

And then through a stretching of stillness,

Nudges it upward.

The ball

Slides up and out,

Lands,

Leans,

Wobbles

Wavers,

Hesitates,

Exasperates,

Plays it coy

Until every face begs with unsounding screams-

And then

 

And then

 

And then,

Right before ROAR-UP,

Dives down and through.

 

By Edwin A. Hoey

 

57. Casey at the Bat Ernest Lawrence Thayer

The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Mudville nine that day;The score stood four to two with but one inning more to play.And then when Cooney died at first and Barrows did the same,A sickly silence fell upon the patrons of the game.

A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The restClung to the hope which springs eternal in the human breast;They thought if only Casey could but get a whack at that--We'd put up even money now with Casey at the bat.

But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake,And the former was a lulu and the latter was a cake;So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,For there seemed but little chance of Casey's getting to the bat.

But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,And Blake, the much despised, tore the cover off the ball;And when the dust had lifted, and the men saw what had occurred~There was Jimmy safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third.

Then from five thousand throats and more there rose a lusty yell;It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell;It knocked upon the mountain and recoiled upon the flat,

For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.

There was ease in Casey's manner as he stepped into his place;

There was pride in Casey's bearing and a smile on Casey's face.And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Casey at the bat.

Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt;Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirtThen while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,Defiance gleamed in Casey's eye, a sneer curled Casey's lip.

And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped--"That ain't my style," said Casey. "Strike one," the umpire said.

From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,Like the beating of the storm waves on a stern and distant shore."Kill him! Kill the umpire!" shouted someone on the stand;And it's likely they'd have killed him had not Casey raised his hand.

With a smile of Christian charity great Casey's visage shone;

He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the spheroid flew;But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, "Strike two."

"Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered, "Fraud!"But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed.

They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,And they knew that Casey wouldn't let that ball go by again.

The sneer is gone from Casey's lip, his teeth are clenched in hate;

He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate.And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,

And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow.

Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout;But there is no joy in Mudville--mighty Casey has struck out.

58. Paul Revere's Ride by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Listen my children and you shall hearOf the midnight ride of Paul Revere,On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;Hardly a man is now aliveWho remembers that famous day and year.

He said to his friend, "If the British marchBy land or sea from the town to-night,Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry archOf the North Church tower as a signal

light,--One if by land, and two if by sea;And I on the opposite shore will be,Ready to ride and spread the alarmThrough every Middlesex village and farm,For the country folk to be up and to arm."

Then he said "Good-night!" and with muffled oarSilently rowed to the Charlestown shore,

Just as the moon rose over the bay,Where swinging wide at her moorings layThe Somerset, British man-of-war;A phantom ship, with each mast and sparAcross the moon like a prison bar,And a huge black hulk, that was magnifiedBy its own reflection in the tide.

Meanwhile, his friend through alley and streetWanders and watches, with eager ears,Till in the silence around him he hearsThe muster of men at the barrack door,The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,And the measured tread of the grenadiers,Marching down to their boats on the shore.

Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church,By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,To the belfry chamber overhead,And startled the pigeons from their perchOn the somber rafters, that round him madeMasses and moving shapes of shade,--By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,To the highest window in the wall,Where he paused to listen and look downA moment on the roofs of the townAnd the moonlight flowing over all.

Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,In their night encampment on the hill,Wrapped in silence so deep and stillThat he could hear, like a sentinel's tread,The watchful night-wind, as it wentCreeping along from tent to tent,And seeming to whisper, "All is well!"A moment only he feels the spellOf the place and the hour, and the secret dreadOf the lonely belfry and the dead;

For suddenly all his thoughts are bentOn a shadowy something far away,Where the river widens to meet the bay,--A line of black that bends and floatsOn the rising tide like a bridge of boats.

Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,Booted and spurred, with a heavy strideOn the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.Now he patted his horse's side,Now he gazed at the landscape far and near,Then, impetuous, stamped the earth,And turned and tightened his saddle girth;But mostly he watched with eager searchThe belfry tower of the Old North Church,As it rose above the graves on the hill,Lonely and spectral and somber and still.And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's heightA glimmer, and then a gleam of light!He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,But lingers and gazes, till full on his sightA second lamp in the belfry burns.

A hurry of hoofs in a village street,A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a sparkStruck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet;That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,The fate of a nation was riding that night;And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,Kindled the land into flame with its heat.He has left the village and mounted the steep,And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,

Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;And under the alders that skirt its edge,Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.

It was twelve by the village clockWhen he crossed the bridge into Medford town.He heard the crowing of the cock,And the barking of the farmer's dog,And felt the damp of the river fog,That rises after the sun goes down.

It was one by the village clock,When he galloped into Lexington.He saw the gilded weathercockSwim in the moonlight as he passed,And the meeting-house windows, black and bare,Gaze at him with a spectral glare,As if they already stood aghastAt the bloody work they would look upon.

It was two by the village clock,When he came to the bridge in Concord town.He heard the bleating of the flock,And the twitter of birds among the trees,And felt the breath of the morning breezeBlowing over the meadow brown.And one was safe and asleep in his bed

Who at the bridge would be first to fall,Who that day would be lying dead,Pierced by a British musket ball.

You know the rest. In the books you have readHow the British Regulars fired and fled,---How the farmers gave them ball for ball,>From behind each fence and farmyard wall,Chasing the redcoats down the lane,Then crossing the fields to emerge againUnder the trees at the turn of the road,And only pausing to fire and load.

So through the night rode Paul Revere;And so through the night went his cry of alarmTo every Middlesex village and farm,---A cry of defiance, and not of fear,A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,And a word that shall echo for evermore!For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,Through all our history, to the last,In the hour of darkness and peril and need,The people will waken and listen to hearThe hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,And the midnight message of Paul Revere.

59. Walt Whitman (1819–1892).  Leaves of Grass.  1900. 193. O Captain! My Captain!

1

O CAPTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip is done;

 

The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won;  The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,  While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:  

    But O heart! heart! heart!          5

      O the bleeding drops of red,          Where on the deck my Captain lies,            Fallen cold and dead.    

2  

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills;   10For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding;

 

For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;      Here Captain! dear father!        This arm beneath your head;          It is some dream that on the deck,   15          You’ve fallen cold and dead.    

3

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;

 

My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;  The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;  From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won;   20    Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!        But I, with mournful tread,          Walk the deck my Captain lies,            Fallen cold and dead.

60. Wallace Stevens

Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird

I Among twenty snowy mountains, The only moving thing Was the eye of the blackbird.

II I was of three minds, Like a tree In which there are three blackbirds.

III The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds. It was a small part of the pantomime.

IV A man and a woman Are one. A man and a woman and a blackbird Are one.

V

I do not know which to prefer, The beauty of inflections

Or the beauty of innuendoes, The blackbird whistling Or just after.

VI Icicles filled the long window With barbaric glass. The shadows of the blackbird Crossed it, to and fro. The mood Traced in the shadow An indecipherable cause.

VII O thin men of Haddam, Why do you imagine golden birds? Do you not see how the blackbird Walks around the feet Or the women about you?

VIII I know noble accents And lucid, inescapable rhythms; But I know, too, That the blackbird is involved In what I know.

IX

When the blackbird flew out of sight, It marked the edge Of one of many circles.

X At the sight of blackbirds

Flying in a green light, Even the bawds of euphony Would cry out sharply.

XI He rode over Connecticut In a glass coach. Once, a fear pierced him, In that he mistook The shadow of his equipage For blackbirds.

XII The river is moving. The blackbird must be flying.

XIII It was evening all afternoon. It was snowing And it was going to snow. The blackbird sat In the cedar-limbs.

61. "Cinderella" by Anne Sexton

You always read about it:the plumber with the twelve childrenwho wins the Irish Sweepstakes.From toilets to riches.That story.Or the nursemaid,some luscious sweet from Denmarkwho captures the oldest son's heart.

from diapers to Dior.That story.Or a milkman who serves the wealthy,eggs, cream, butter, yogurt, milk,the white truck like an ambulancewho goes into real estateand makes a pile.From homogenized to martinis at

lunch.Or the charwomanwho is on the bus when it cracks upand collects enough from the insurance.From mops to Bonwit Teller.That story.Oncethe wife of a rich man was on her deathbedand she said to her daughter Cinderella:Be devout. Be good. Then I will smiledown from heaven in the seam of a cloud.The man took another wife who hadtwo daughters, pretty enoughbut with hearts like blackjacks.Cinderella was their maid.She slept on the sooty hearth each nightand walked around looking like Al Jolson.Her father brought presents home from town,jewels and gowns for the other womenbut the twig of a tree for Cinderella.She planted that twig on her mother's graveand it grew to a tree where a white dove sat.Whenever she wished for anything the dovewould drop it like an egg upon the ground.The bird is important, my dears, so heed him.Next came the ball, as you all know.It was a marriage market.The prince was looking for a wife.All but Cinderella were preparingand gussying up for the event.Cinderella begged to go too.Her stepmother threw a dish of lentilsinto the cinders and said: Pick themup in an hour and you shall go.The white dove brought all his friends;all the warm wings of the fatherland came,and picked up the lentils in a jiffy.No, Cinderella, said the stepmother,you have no clothes and cannot dance.That's the way with stepmothers.Cinderella went to the tree at the grave

and cried forth like a gospel singer:Mama! Mama! My turtledove,send me to the prince's ball!The bird dropped down a golden dressand delicate little slippers.Rather a large package for a simple bird.So she went. Which is no surprise.Her stepmother and sisters didn'trecognize her without her cinder faceand the prince took her hand on the spotand danced with no other the whole day.As nightfall came she thought she'd betterget home. The prince walked her homeand she disappeared into the pigeon houseand although the prince took an axe and brokeit open she was gone. Back to her cinders.These events repeated themselves for three days.However on the third day the princecovered the palace steps with cobbler's waxand Cinderella's gold shoe stuck upon it.Now he would find whom the shoe fitand find his strange dancing girl for keeps.He went to their house and the two sisterswere delighted because they had lovely feet.The eldest went into a room to try the slipper onbut her big toe got in the way so she simplysliced it off and put on the slipper.The prince rode away with her until the white dovetold him to look at the blood pouring forth.That is the way with amputations.They just don't heal up like a wish.The other sister cut off her heelbut the blood told as blood will.The prince was getting tired.He began to feel like a shoe salesman.But he gave it one last try.This time Cinderella fit into the shoelike a love letter into its envelope.

At the wedding ceremonythe two sisters came to curry favorand the white dove pecked their eyes out.Two hollow spots were leftlike soup spoons.Cinderella and the princelived, they say, happily ever after,like two dolls in a museum casenever bothered by diapers or dust,

never arguing over the timing of an egg,never telling the same story twice,never getting a middle-aged spread,their darling smiles pasted on for eternity.Regular Bobbsey Twins.

That story.

62. Elizabeth Barrett Browning

"How Do I Love Thee? Let Me Count the Ways" (1850)

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.I love thee to the depth and breadth and heightMy soul can reach, when feeling out of sightFor the ends of Being and ideal Grace.I love thee to the level of everyday'sMost quiet need, by sun and candlelight.I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.I love with a passion put to useIn my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.I love thee with a love I seemed to loseWith my lost saints, -- I love thee with the breath,Smiles, tears, of all my life!--and, if God choose,I shall but love thee better after death.

63. Live

"Lightening Crashes"

Lightening Crashes, a new mother criesher placenta falls to the floorThe angel opens her eyesthe confusion sets inbefore the doctor can even close the doorLightening Crashes, an old mother diesher intentions fall to the floorthe angel closes her eyesthe confusion that was hersbelongs now, to the baby down the hallOh now feel it comin’ back againlike a rollin’ thunder chasing the windforces pullin’ from the center of the Earth againI can feel it.Lightening Crashes, a new mother criesthis moment she’s been waiting forThe angel opens her eyesPale blue colored iris, presents the circleand puts the glory out to hide, hide

64. Phenomenal Woman

Maya Angelou

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's sizeBut when I start to tell them,They think I'm telling lies.I say,It's in the reach of my arms,The span of my hips,The stride of my step,The curl of my lips.I'm a womanPhenomenally.Phenomenal woman,That's me.

I walk into a roomJust as cool as you please,And to a man,The fellows stand orFall down on their knees.Then they swarm around me,A hive of honey bees.I say,It's the fire in my eyes,And the flash of my teeth,The swing in my waist,And the joy in my feet.I'm a womanPhenomenally.Phenomenal women,That's me.

Men themselves have wonderedWhat they see in me.

They try so muchBut they can't touchMy inner mystery.When I try to show themThey say they still can't see.I say,It's in the arch of my back,The sun of my smile,The ride of my breasts,The grace of my style.I'm a womanPhenomenally.Phenomenal woman,That's me.

Now you understandJust why my head's not bowed.I don't shout or jump aboutOr have to talk real loud.When you see me passingIt ought to make you proud.I say,It's in the click of my heels,The bend of my hair,The palm of my hand,The need for my care.'Cause I'm a womanPhenomenally.Phenomenal woman,That's me.

65. Alternate Player…

Beware: Do Not Read This Poem

by Ishmael Reed

tonite, thriller wasabt an ol woman, so vain shesurrounded herself w/many mirrors it got so bad that finally shelocked herself indoors & herwhole life became themirrors one day the villagers brokeinto her house, but she was tooswift for them. she disappearedinto a mirroreach tenant who bought the houseafter that, lost a loved one tothe ol woman in the mirror:first a little girlthen a young womanthen the young woman/s husband the hunger of this poem is legendaryit has taken in many

victimsback off from this poemit has drawn in yr feetback off from this poemit has drawn in yr legs back off from this poemit is a greedy mirroryou are into this poem. fromthe waist downnobody can hear you can they?this poem has had you up to herebelchthis poem aint got no mannersyou cant call out frm this poemrelax now & go w/ this poem move & roll on to this poemdo not resist this poemthis poem has yr eyesthis poem has his headthis poem has his armsthis poem has his fingersthis poem has his fingertips this poem is the reader & thereader the poem statistic: the us bureau of missing persons re-  ports that in 1968 over 100,000 people  disappeared leaving no solid clues  nor trace     onlya space     in the lives of their friends