POEMS

And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,

Do not go gentle into that good night.

“A POISON TREE” Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight

BY WILLIAM BLAKE Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,

I was angry with my friend: Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

I told my wrath, my wrath did end And you, my father, there on the sad height

I was angry with my foe: Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.

I told it not, my wrath did grow. Do not go gentle into that good night.

And I watered it in fears Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Night and morning with my tears,

And I sunned it with smiles -

And with soft deceitful wiles. “Hope Is The Thing With Feathers”

And it grew both day and night, BY EMILY DICKINSON

Till it bore an apple bright, “Hope” is the thing with feathers

And my foe beheld it shine, That perches in the soul

And he knew that it was mine,-- And sings the tune without the words

And into my garden stole And never stops - at all

When the night had veiled the pole; And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard

In the morning, glad, I see And sore must be the storm

My foe stretched beneath the tree. That could abash the little Bird

That kept so many warm

I’ve heard it in the chillest land

“Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night” And on the strangest Sea

Dylan Thomas - 1914-1953 Yet - never - in Extremity,

Do not go gentle into that good night, It asked a crumb - of me.

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light. “The Road Not Taken”

Though wise men at their end know dark is right, by Robert Frost

Because their words had forked no lightning they Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

Do not go gentle into that good night. And sorry I could not travel both

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright And be one traveller, long I stood

Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, And looked down one as far as I could

Rage, rage against the dying of the light. To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim, A tree that looks at God all day,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear; And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

Though as for that the passing there A tree that may in summer wear

Had worn them really about the same, A nest of robins in her hair;

And both that morning equally lay Upon whose bosom snow has lain;

In leaves no step had trodden black. Who intimately lives with rain.

Oh, I kept the first for another day! Poems are made by fools like me,

Yet knowing how way leads on to way, But only God can make a tree.

I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence: “Ozymandias”

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I by Percy Bysshe Shelley

I took the one less travelled by, I met a traveler from an antique land,

And that has made all the difference. Who said—“Two vast and trunkless legs of stone

Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand,

Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,

“Dreams” And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,

by Langston Hughes Tell that its sculptor well those passions read

Hold fast to dreams Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,

For if dreams die The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;

Life is a broken-winged bird And on the pedestal, these words appear:

That cannot fly. My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings;

Hold fast to dreams Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!

For when dreams go Nothing beside remains. Round the decay

Life is a barren field Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare

Frozen with snow. The lone and level sands stretch far away.

"Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep"

“Trees”
By Mary Elizabeth Frye
by Joyce Kilmer
Do not stand at my grave and weep
I think that I shall never see
I am not there. I do not sleep.
A poem lovely as a tree.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
I am the diamond glints on snow.
Against the earth’s sweet flowing breast;
I am the sunlight on ripened grain. My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight

I am the gentle autumn rain. For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.

When you awaken in the morning's hush I love thee to the level of every day's

I am the swift uplifting rush Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.

Of quiet birds in circled flight. I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;

I am the soft stars that shine at night. I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.

Do not stand at my grave and cry; I love with a passion put to use

I am not there. I did not die. In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.

I love thee with a love I seemed to lose

With my lost saints, I love thee with the breath,

"I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You" Smiles, tears, of all my life! - and, if God choose,

by Pablo Neruda I shall but love thee better after death.

I do not love you except because I love you;

I go from loving to not loving you,

From waiting to not waiting for you "A Dream Within A Dream"

My heart moves from cold to fire. By Edgar Allan Poe

I love you only because it's you the one I love; Take this kiss upon the brow!

I hate you deeply, and hating you And, in parting from you now,

Thus much let me avow-

Bend to you, and the measure of my changing love for You are not wrong, who deem
you

Is that I do not see you but love blindly.

That my days have been a dream;
Maybe January light will consume
Yet if hope has flown away
My heart with its cruel
In a night, or in a day,
Ray, stealing my key to true calm.
In a vision, or in none,
In this part of the story I am the one who
Is it therefore the less gone?
Dies, the only one, and I will die of love because I love
All that we see or seem
you,
Is but a dream within a dream.
Because I love you, Love, in fire and blood.
I stand amid the roar

Of a surf-tormented shore,
"How Do I Love Thee?"
And I hold within my hand.
By Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Grains of the golden sand-
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
How few! yet how they creep
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
 Which is the bliss of solitude;

Through my fingers to the deep, And then my heart with pleasure fills,

While I weep- while I weep! And dances with the daffodils.

O God! can I not grasp

Them with a tighter clasp?

O God! can I not save “Mother To Son” by Langston Hughes

One from the pitiless wave? Well, son, I’ll tell you:

Is all that we see or seem Life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.

But a dream within a dream? It’s had tacks in it,

And splinters,

And boards torn up,

“I Wandered Lonely As A Cloud” And places with no carpet on the floor —

by William Wordsworth Bare.

I wandered lonely as a cloud But all the time

That floats on high o’er vales and hills, I’se been a-climbin’ on,

When all at once I saw a crowd, And reachin’ landin’s,

A host, of golden daffodils; And turnin’ corners,

Beside the lake, beneath the trees, And sometimes goin’ in the dark

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. Where there ain’t been no light.

Continuous as the stars that shine So, boy, don’t you turn back.

And twinkle on the milky way, Don’t you set down on the steps.

They stretched in never-ending line ’Cause you finds it’s kinder hard.

Along the margin of a bay: Don’t you fall now —

Ten thousand saw I at a glance, For I’se still goin’, honey,

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. I’se still climbin’,

The waves beside them danced; but they And life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:

A poet could not but be gay,

In such a jocund company: “I Choose The Mountain” by Howard Simon

I gazed- and gazed- but little thought The low lands call

What wealth the show to me had brought: I am tempted to answer

For oft, when on my couch I lie They are offering me a free dwelling

In vacant or in pensive mood, Without having to conquer

They flash upon that inward eye The massive mountain makes its move
Beckoning me to ascend

A much more difficult path “O Captain! My Captain!” by Walt Whitman

To get up the slippery bend O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done;

I cannot choose both The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we
sought is won;
I have a choice to make
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all
I must be wise
exulting,
This will determine my fate
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and
I choose, I choose the mountain daring:

With all its stress and strain

Because only by climbing But O heart! heart! heart!

Can I rise above the plain O the bleeding drops of red,

I choose the mountain Where on the deck my Captain lies,

And I will never stop climbing Fallen cold and dead.

I choose the mountain

And I shall forever be ascending O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;

I choose the mountain Rise up — for you the flag is flung — for you the bugle
trills;

For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths — for you the

shores a-crowding;
“There Will Come Soft Rain” by Sara Teasdale For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces
There will come soft rain and the smell of the ground, turning;

And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;

And frogs in the pools singing at night, Here Captain! dear father!

And wild plum trees in tremulous white; This arm beneath your head;

It is some dream that on the deck,

Robins will wear their feathery fire, You’ve fallen cold and dead.

Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;

And not one will know of the war, not one My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;

Will care at last when it is done. My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor
will;

The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed

Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree, and done;
If mankind perished utterly; From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object
And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn won;

Would scarcely know that we were gone. Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!

But I, with mournful tread,

Walk the deck my Captain lies, If you can make one heap of all your winnings

Fallen cold and dead. And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,

And lose, and start again at your beginnings

And never breathe a word about your loss;

“Fire And Ice” by Robert Frost If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

Some say the world will end in fire, To serve your turn long after they are gone,

Some say in ice. And so hold on when there is nothing in you

From what I’ve tasted of desire Except the Will which says to them: “Hold on”;

I hold with those who favor fire. If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,

But if it had to perish twice, Or walk with kings—nor lose the common touch;

I think I know enough of hate If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;

To say that for destruction ice If all men count with you, but none too much;

Is also great If you can fill the unforgiving minute

and would suffice. With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run—

Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,

And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!

If

By: Rudy Kipling

If you can keep your head when all about you Remember

Are losing theirs and blaming it on you; By: Christina Rossetti

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, Remember me when I am gone away,

But make allowance for their doubting too; Gone far away into the silent land;

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, When you can no more hold me by the hand,

Or, being lied about, don’t deal in lies, Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.

Or, being hated, don’t give way to hating, Remember me when no more day by day

And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise; You tell me of our future that you plann'd:

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master; Only remember me; you understand

If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim; It will be late to counsel then or pray.

If you can meet with triumph and disaster Yet if you should forget me for a while

And treat those two impostors just the same; And afterwards remember, do not grieve:

If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken For if the darkness and corruption leave

Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,

Or watch the things you gave your life to broken, Better by far you should forget and smile

And stoop and build ’em up with wornout tools; Than that you should remember and be sad.
A Fairy Song Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

By: William Shakespeare BY ROBERT FROST

Over hill, over dale, Whose woods these are I think I know.

Thorough bush, thorough brier, His house is in the village though;

Over park, over pale, He will not see me stopping here

Thorough flood, thorough fire! To watch his woods fill up with snow.

I do wander everywhere, My little horse must think it queer

Swifter than the moon's sphere; To stop without a farmhouse near

And I serve the Fairy Queen, Between the woods and frozen lake

To dew her orbs upon the green; The darkest evening of the year.

The cowslips tall her pensioners be; He gives his harness bells a shake

In their gold coats spots you see; To ask if there is some mistake.

Those be rubies, fairy favours; The only other sound’s the sweep

In those freckles live their savours; Of easy wind and downy flake.

I must go seek some dewdrops here, The woods are lovely, dark and deep,

And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear. But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.

'No Man is an Island'

By John Donne Still I Rise

No man is an island entire of itself; every man BY MAYA ANGELOU

is a piece of the continent, a part of the main; You may write me down in history

if a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe With your bitter, twisted lies,

the less, as well as if a promontory were, as You may trod me in the very dirt

well as any manner of thy friends or of thine But still, like dust, I'll rise.

own were; any man's death diminishes me, Does my sassiness upset you?

because I am involved in mankind. Why are you beset with gloom?

And therefore never send to know for whom ’Cause I walk like I've got oil wells

the bell tolls; it tolls for thee. Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,

With the certainty of tides,

Just like hopes springing high,

Still I'll rise.

Did you want to see me broken? Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?

Bowed head and lowered eyes? Thou art more lovely and more temperate.

Shoulders falling down like teardrops, Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,

Weakened by my soulful cries? And summer’s lease hath all too short a date.

Does my haughtiness offend you? Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,

Don't you take it awful hard -B And often is his gold complexion dimmed;

’Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines And every fair from fair sometime declines,

Diggin’ in my own backyard. By chance, or nature’s changing course, untrimmed;

You may shoot me with your words, But thy eternal summer shall not fade,

You may cut me with your eyes, Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st,

You may kill me with your hatefulness, Nor shall death brag thou wand'rest in his shade,

But still, like air, I’ll rise. When in eternal lines to Time thou grow'st.

Does my sexiness upset you? So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,

Does it come as a surprise So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

That I dance like I've got diamonds

At the meeting of my thighs? Acquainted with the Night

Out of the huts of history’s shame BY ROBERT FROST

I rise I have been one acquainted with the night.

Up from a past that’s rooted in pain I have walked out in rain—and back in rain. -

I rise I have outwalked the furthest city light.

I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,- I have looked down the saddest city lane.

Welling and swelling I bear in the tide. I have passed by the watchman on his beat

Leaving behind nights of terror and fear And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.

I rise I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet -

Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear When far away an interrupted cry

I rise Came over houses from another street,

Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave, But not to call me back or say good-bye;

I am the dream and the hope of the slave. And further still at an unearthly height,

I rise One luminary clock against the sky

I rise Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.

I have been one acquainted with the night.

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?

William Shakespeare - 1564-1616

 But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came
rapping,
The Raven
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my
BY EDGAR ALLAN POE
chamber door,
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak
That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened
and weary,
wide the door;
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten
Darkness there and nothing more.
lore
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came
wondering, fearing,
a tapping,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my
dream before;
chamber door.
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave
“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my
no token,
chamber door
And the only word there spoken was the whispered
Only this and nothing more.”
word, “Lenore?”
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the
December;
word, “Lenore!”
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost
Merely this and nothing more.
upon the floor.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me
Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to
burning,
borrow
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than
From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the
before.
lost Lenore
“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels
window lattice;
name Lenore
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery
Nameless here for evermore.
explore
And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery
curtain
explore;
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt
’Tis the wind and nothing more!”-B
before;
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood
and flutter,
repeating
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of
“’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber
yore;
door
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber
stopped or stayed he;
door;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my
This it is and nothing more.”
chamber door
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber
longer,
door
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
implore;
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden
smiling, bore

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”

wore,
But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird,
“art sure no craven,
and bust and door;
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to
Nightly shore
linking
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of
Plutonian shore!”
yore
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse bird of yore
so plainly,
Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”
Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable
bore;
expressing
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my
being
bosom’s core;
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease
chamber door
reclining
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his
On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light
chamber door,
gloated o’er,
With such name as “Nevermore.”
But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light
But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke gloating o’er,
only
She shall press, ah, nevermore!
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from
outpour.
an unseen censer
Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the
he fluttered
tufted floor.
Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have
“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these
flown before
angels he hath sent thee
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have
Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of
flown before.”
Lenore;
Then the bird said “Nevermore.”-B
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly Lenore!”
spoken,
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird
store
or devil!
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed
Disaster
thee here ashore,
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land
burden bore
enchanted
On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I Of many far wiser than we
implore
And neither the angels in Heaven above
Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I
Nor the demons down under the sea
implore!”
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

Annabel Lee
For the moon never beams, without bringing me
BY EDGAR ALLAN POE
dreams
It was many and many a year ago,
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
In a kingdom by the sea,
And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
By the name of Annabel Lee; -
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride,
Than to love and be loved by me.
In her sepulchre there by the sea
I was a child and she was a child,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.
In this kingdom by the sea,

But we loved with a love that was more than love,

I and my Annabel Lee -

The Children's Hour
With a love that the wingèd seraphs of Heaven -
BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
Coveted her and me.
Between the dark and the daylight,
And this was the reason that, long ago,
When the night is beginning to lower,
In this kingdom by the sea,
Comes a pause in the day's occupations,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
That is known as the Children's Hour.
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
I hear in the chamber above me
So that her highborn kinsmen came
The patter of little feet,
And bore her away from me,
The sound of a door that is opened,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
And voices soft and sweet.
In this kingdom by the sea.
From my study I see in the lamplight,
The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,
Descending the broad hall stair,
Went envying her and me
Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra,
Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know,
And Edith with golden hair.
In this kingdom by the sea)
A whisper, and then a silence:
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Yet I know by their merry eyes
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.
They are plotting and planning together
But our love it was stronger by far than the love

Of those who were older than we

To take me by surprise. My love is such that rivers cannot quench,

A sudden rush from the stairway, Nor ought but love from thee give recompense.

A sudden raid from the hall!

By three doors left unguarded Thy love is such I can no way repay;-

They enter my castle wall! The heavens reward thee manifold, I pray.

They climb up into my turret Then while we live, in love let's so persevere,

O'er the arms and back of my chair; That when we live no more we may live ever.

If I try to escape, they surround me;

They seem to be everywhere.

They almost devour me with kisses, THE MORE LOVING ONE

Their arms about me entwine, W.H Auden

Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen Looking up at the stars, I know quite well

In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine! That, for all they care, I can go to hell,

Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti, But on earth indifference is the least

Because you have scaled the wall, We have to dread from man or beast.

Such an old mustache as I am How should we like it were stars to burn

Is not a match for you all! With a passion for us we could not return?

I have you fast in my fortress, If equal affection cannot be,

And will not let you depart, Let the more loving one be me.

But put you down into the dungeon Admirer as I think I am

In the round-tower of my heart. Of stars that do not give a damn,

And there will I keep you forever, I cannot, now I see them, say

Yes, forever and a day, I missed one terribly all day.

Till the walls shall crumble to ruin, Were all stars to disappear or die,

And moulder in dust away! I should learn to look at an empty sky

And feel its total dark sublime,

To My Dear and Loving Husband Though this might take me a little time

Anne Bradstreet

If ever two were one, then surely we. Funeral Blues

If ever man were loved by wife, then thee; by W. H. Auden

If ever wife was happy in a man, Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,

Compare with me ye women if you can. Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,

I prize thy love more than whole mines of gold, Silence the pianos and with muffled drum

Or all the riches that the East doth hold. Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead BY WALLACE STEVENS

Scribbling on the sky the message 'He is Dead'. The house was quiet and the world was calm.

Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public The reader became the book; and summer night
doves,
Was like the conscious being of the book.
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
The house was quiet and the world was calm.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
The words were spoken as if there was no book,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
Except that the reader leaned above the page,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
Wanted to lean, wanted much most to be
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.
The scholar to whom his book is true, to whom
The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
The summer night is like a perfection of thought.
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
The house was quiet because it had to be.
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
The quiet was part of the meaning, part of the mind:
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
The access of perfection to the page.

And the world was calm. The truth in a calm world,

She Walks in Beauty
In which there is no other meaning, itself
BY LORD BYRON (GEORGE GORDON)
Is calm, itself is summer and night, itself
She walks in beauty, like the night
Is the reader leaning late and reading there.
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;

And all that’s best of dark and bright

If We Must Die
Meet in her aspect and her eyes;
By Claude McKay
Thus mellowed to that tender light
If we must die—let it not be like hogs
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
Hunted and penned in an inglorious spot,
One shade the more, one ray the less,
While round us bark the mad and hungry dogs,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Making their mock at our accursed lot.
Which waves in every raven tress,
If we must die—oh, let us nobly die,
Or softly lightens o’er her face;
So that our precious blood may not be shed
Where thoughts serenely sweet express,
In vain; then even the monsters we defy
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
Shall be constrained to honor us though dead!
And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,
Oh, Kinsmen! We must meet the common foe;
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
Though far outnumbered, let us show us brave,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
And for their thousand blows deal one deathblow!
But tell of days in goodness spent,
What though before us lies the open grave?
A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is
Like men we'll face the murderous, cowardly pack,
innocent!
Pressed to the wall, dying, but fighting back!
The House Was Quiet and The World Was Calm