Psalm 23

A Psalm of David

1  The LORD is my shepherd; I shall not want.

2 He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.
3 He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake.
4 Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for
thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.
5 Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my
head with oil; my cup runneth over.
6 Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the
house of the LORD for ever.

The Passionate Shepherd to His Love 

Christopher Marlowe
1599

Come live with me and be my Love, 

And we will all the pleasures prove1 
That hills and valleys, dale and field, 
And all the craggy mountains yield.

There will we sit upon the rocks.......................5  

And see the shepherds feed their flocks, 
By shallow rivers, to whose falls  
Melodious birds sing madrigals.2

There will I make thee beds of roses 

And a thousand fragrant posies,.......................10  
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle3 
Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle.4

A gown made of the finest wool  

Which from our pretty lambs we pull, 
Fair linèd slippers for the cold,..........................15  
With buckles of the purest gold.

A belt of straw and ivy buds  

With coral5 clasps and amber6 studs: 
And if these pleasures may thee move,  
Come live with me and be my Love.....................20 

Thy silver dishes for thy meat  

As precious as the gods do eat,  
Shall on an ivory table be  
Prepared each day for thee and me.

The shepherd swains7 shall dance and sing.........25  

For thy delight each May-morning:  
If these delights thy mind may move,  
Then live with me and be my Love.
 The Nymph's Reply to the Shepherd 
by Sir Walter Raleigh 
1600

If all the world and love were young, 

And truth in every shepherd's tongue, 
These pretty pleasures might me move 
To live with thee and be thy love.

Time drives the flocks from field to fold, 

When rivers rage and rocks grow cold; 
And Philomel becometh dumb; 
The rest complain of cares to come.

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields 

To wayward winter reckoning yields; 
A honey tongue, a heart of gall, 
Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall.

Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy bed of roses, 

Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies, 
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten, 
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.

Thy belt of straw and ivy buds, 

Thy coral clasps and amber studs, 
All these in me no means can move 
To come to thee and be thy love.

But could youth last and love still breed, 

Had joys no date nor age no need, 
Then these delights my mind might move 
To live with thee and be thy love.

THE LISTENERS
Walter de la Mare
(b. 1873) 1924

'IS there anybody there?' said the Traveller,

Knocking on the moonlit door;
And his horse in the silence champ'd the grasses
Of the forest's ferny floor:
And a bird flew up out of the turret,
Above the Traveller's head:
And he smote upon the door again a second time;
'Is there anybody there?' he said.
But no one descended to the Traveller;
No head from the leaf-fringed sill
Lean'd over and look'd into his grey eyes,
Where he stood perplex'd and still.
But only a host of phantom listeners
That dwelt in the lone house then
Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight
To that voice from the world of men:
Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair,
That goes down to the empty hall,
Hearkening in an air stirr'd and shaken
By the lonely Traveller's call.
And he felt in his heart their strangeness,
Their stillness answering his cry,
While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf,
'Neath the starr'd and leafy sky;
For he suddenly smote on the door, even
Louder, and lifted his head:--
'Tell them I came, and no one answer'd,
That I kept my word,' he said.
Never the least stir made the listeners,
Though every word he spake
Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house
From the one man left awake:
Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup,
And the sound of iron on stone,
And how the silence surged softly backward,
When the plunging hoofs were gone.

Fable
Ralph Waldo Emerson

The mountain and the squirrel

Had a quarrel;
And the former called the latter "Little Prig."
Bun replied,
"You are doubtless very big;
But all sorts of things and weather
Must be taken in together
To make up a year
And a sphere.
And I think it's no disgrace
To occupy my place.
If I'm not so large as you,
You are not so small as I,
And not half so spry.
I'll not deny you make
A very pretty squirrel track;
Talents differ: all is well and wisely put;
If I cannot carry forests on my back,
Neither can you crack a nut."

“Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening”

Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know.

His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer 5
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake

To ask if there is some mistake. 10
The only other sounds the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,

But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep, 15
And miles to go before I sleep.
I'm Nobody! Who are You? by Emily Dickinson
I'm nobody! Who are you? Are you nobody, too?
Then there's a pair of us -don't tell!
They'd banish us, you know.

How dreary to be somebody!

How public, like a frog
To tell your name the livelong day
To an admiring bog!

Patterns
from Men, Women, and Ghosts
by Amy Lowell
(1874-1925)

I walk down the garden paths,

And all the daffodils
Are blowing, and the bright blue squills.
I walk down the patterned garden-paths
In my stiff, brocaded gown.
With my powdered hair and jewelled fan,
I too am a rare
Pattern. As I wander down
The garden paths.
My dress is richly figured,
And the train
Makes a pink and silver stain
On the gravel, and the thrift
Of the borders.
Just a plate of current fashion,
Tripping by in high-heeled, ribboned shoes.
Not a softness anywhere about me,
Only whalebone and brocade.
And I sink on a seat in the shade
Of a lime tree. For my passion
Wars against the stiff brocade.
The daffodils and squills
Flutter in the breeze
As they please.
And I weep;
For the lime-tree is in blossom
And one small flower has dropped upon my bosom.

And the plashing of waterdrops

In the marble fountain
Comes down the garden-paths.
The dripping never stops.
Underneath my stiffened gown
Is the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin,
A basin in the midst of hedges grown
So thick, she cannot see her lover hiding,
But she guesses he is near,
And the sliding of the water
Seems the stroking of a dear
Hand upon her.
What is Summer in a fine brocaded gown!
I should like to see it lying in a heap upon the ground.
All the pink and silver crumpled up on the ground.

I would be the pink and silver as I ran along the paths,

And he would stumble after,
Bewildered by my laughter.
I should see the sun flashing from his sword-hilt and the buckles
on his shoes.
I would choose
To lead him in a maze along the patterned paths,
A bright and laughing maze for my heavy-booted lover,
Till he caught me in the shade,
And the buttons of his waistcoat bruised my body as he clasped me,
Aching, melting, unafraid.
With the shadows of the leaves and the sundrops,
And the plopping of the waterdrops,
All about us in the open afternoon --
I am very like to swoon
With the weight of this brocade,
For the sun sifts through the shade.

Underneath the fallen blossom

In my bosom,
Is a letter I have hid.
It was brought to me this morning by a rider from the Duke.
"Madam, we regret to inform you that Lord Hartwell
Died in action Thursday se'nnight."
As I read it in the white, morning sunlight,
The letters squirmed like snakes.
"Any answer, Madam," said my footman.
"No," I told him.
"See that the messenger takes some refreshment.
No, no answer."
And I walked into the garden,
Up and down the patterned paths,
In my stiff, correct brocade.
The blue and yellow flowers stood up proudly in the sun,
Each one.
I stood upright too,
Held rigid to the pattern
By the stiffness of my gown.
Up and down I walked,
Up and down.

In a month he would have been my husband.

In a month, here, underneath this lime,
We would have broke the pattern;
He for me, and I for him,
He as Colonel, I as Lady,
On this shady seat.
He had a whim
That sunlight carried blessing.
And I answered, "It shall be as you have said."
Now he is dead.

In Summer and in Winter I shall walk

Up and down
The patterned garden-paths
In my stiff, brocaded gown.
The squills and daffodils
Will give place to pillared roses, and to asters, and to snow.
I shall go
Up and down,
In my gown.
Gorgeously arrayed,
Boned and stayed.
And the softness of my body will be guarded from embrace
By each button, hook, and lace.
For the man who should loose me is dead,
Fighting with the Duke in Flanders,
In a pattern called a war.
Christ! What are patterns for?

Song To Celia
Ben Jonson

Drink to me, only with thine eyes

And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss but in the cup,
And I'll not look for wine.
The thirst that from the soul doth rise
Doth ask a drink divine:
But might I of Jove's nectar sup
I would not change for thine.

I sent thee late a rosy wreath,

Not so much honouring thee
As giving it a hope that there
It could not withered be
But thou thereon didst only breath
And sent'st it back to me:
Since, when it grows and smells, I swear,
Not of itself but thee.
 Trees
Joyce Kilmer. 1886–1918

I THINK that I shall never see

A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest

Against the sweet earth's flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day,

And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in summer wear

A nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;

Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me,

But only God can make a tree.

"Blowin' In The Wind"

Bob Dylan

How many roads most a man walk down

Before you call him a man ?
How many seas must a white dove sail
Before she sleeps in the sand ?
Yes, how many times must the cannon balls fly
Before they're forever banned ?
The answer my friend is blowin' in the wind
The answer is blowin' in the wind.

Yes, how many years can a mountain exist

Before it's washed to the sea ?
Yes, how many years can some people exist
Before they're allowed to be free ?
Yes, how many times can a man turn his head
Pretending he just doesn't see ?
The answer my friend is blowin' in the wind
The answer is blowin' in the wind.

Yes, how many times must a man look up

Before he can see the sky ?
Yes, how many ears must one man have
Before he can hear people cry ?
Yes, how many deaths will it take till he knows
That too many people have died ?
The answer my friend is blowin' in the wind
The answer is blowin' in the wind.
 SONNET 29
Shakespeare

When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,

I all alone beweep my outcast state 
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries
And look upon myself and curse my fate, 
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, 
Featured like him, like him with friends possess'd,
Desiring this man's art and that man's scope, 
With what I most enjoy contented least; 
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee, and then my state, 
Like to the lark at break of day arising 
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;
For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

On His Blindness
John Milton

When I consider how my light is spent

Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide
Lodg'd with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest he returning chide,
"Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?"
I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies: "God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts: who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state
Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed
And post o'er land and ocean without rest:
They also serve who only stand and wait."

Break, Break, Break
Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Break, break, break,

On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!
And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me.

O, well for the fisherman's boy,

That he shouts with his sister at play!
O, well for the sailor lad,
That he sings in his boat on the bay!

And the stately ships go on

To their haven under the hill;
But O for the touch of a vanished hand,
And the sound of a voice that is still!

Break, break, break,

At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!
But the tender grace of a day that is dead
Will never come back to me.

Ode to the West Wind

Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822)

I
1O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being,
2Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead
3Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,

4Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,

5Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O thou,
6Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed

7The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low,

8Each like a corpse within its grave, until
9Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow

10Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill

11(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)
12With living hues and odours plain and hill:

13Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere;

14Destroyer and preserver; hear, oh hear!

II
15Thou on whose stream, mid the steep sky's commotion,
16Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed,
17Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and Ocean,

18Angels of rain and lightning: there are spread

19On the blue surface of thine aëry surge,
20Like the bright hair uplifted from the head
21Of some fierce Maenad, even from the dim verge
22Of the horizon to the zenith's height,
23The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge

24Of the dying year, to which this closing night

25Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre,
26Vaulted with all thy congregated might

27Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere

28Black rain, and fire, and hail will burst: oh hear!

III
29Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams
30The blue Mediterranean, where he lay,
31Lull'd by the coil of his crystàlline streams,
 32Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay,
33And saw in sleep old palaces and towers
34Quivering within the wave's intenser day,

35All overgrown with azure moss and flowers

36So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou
37For whose path the Atlantic's level powers

38Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below

39The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear
40The sapless foliage of the ocean, know

41Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear,

42And tremble and despoil themselves: oh hear!

IV
43If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;
44If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;
45A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share

46The impulse of thy strength, only less free

47Than thou, O uncontrollable! If even
48I were as in my boyhood, and could be

49The comrade of thy wanderings over Heaven,

50As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed
51Scarce seem'd a vision; I would ne'er have striven

52As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.

53Oh, lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!
54I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!

55A heavy weight of hours has chain'd and bow'd

56One too like thee: tameless, and swift, and proud.

V
57Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is:
58What if my leaves are falling like its own!
59The tumult of thy mighty harmonies

60Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone,

61Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce,
62My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one!

63Drive my dead thoughts over the universe

64Like wither'd leaves to quicken a new birth!
65And, by the incantation of this verse,

66Scatter, as from an unextinguish'd hearth

67Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!
68Be through my lips to unawaken'd earth

69The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind,

70If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?