When Mother Reads Aloud

When Mother reads aloud, the past

Seems real as every day;

I hear the tramp of armies vast,

I see the spears and lances cast,

I join the thrilling fray;

Brave knights and ladies fair and proud

I meet when Mother reads aloud.

When Mother reads aloud, far lands

Seem very near and true;

I cross the deserts’ gleaming sands,

Or hunt the jungle’s prowling bands,

Or sail the ocean blue.

Far heights, whose peaks the cold mists shroud,

I scale, when Mother reads aloud.

When Mother reads aloud, I long

For noble deeds to do...

To help the right, redress the wrong;

It seems so easy to be strong,

So simple to be true.

Oh, thick and fast the visions crowd

My eyes, when Mother reads aloud.

~ Anonymous

Home, Sweet Home

Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam, 

Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home; 

A charm from the sky seems to hallow us there, 

Which, seek through the world, is ne'er met with elsewhere. 

Home, home, sweet, sweet home! 

There's no place like home, oh, there's no place like home! 

An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain; 

Oh, give me my lowly thatched cottage again! 

The birds singing gayly, that come at my call -- 

Give me them -- and the peace of mind, dearer than all! 

Home, home, sweet, sweet home! 

There's no place like home, oh, there's no place like home! 

I gaze on the moon as I tread the drear wild, 

And feel that my mother now thinks of her child, 

As she looks on that moon from our own cottage door 

Thro' the woodbine, whose fragrance shall cheer me no more. 

Home, home, sweet, sweet home! 

There's no place like home, oh, there's no place like home! 

How sweet 'tis to sit 'neath a fond father's smile, 

And the caress of a mother to soothe and beguile! 

Let others delight mid new pleasures to roam, 

But give me, oh, give me, the pleasures of home. 

Home, home, sweet, sweet home! 

There's no place like home, oh, there's no place like home! 

To thee I'll return, overburdened with care; 

The heart's dearest solace will smile on me there; 

No more from that cottage again will I roam; 

Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home. 

Home, home, sweet, sweet, home! 

There's no place like home, oh, there's no place like home! 

~ John Howard Payne

"Introduction" to Songs of Innocence

Piping down the valleys wild 

Piping songs of pleasant glee 

On a cloud I saw a child. 

And he laughing said to me.

Pipe a song about a Lamb; 

So I piped with merry chear, 

Piper pipe that song again— 

So I piped, he wept to hear.

Drop thy pipe thy happy pipe 

Sing thy songs of happy chear, 

So I sung the same again 

While he wept with joy to hear

Piper sit thee down and write 

In a book that all may read— 

So he vanish'd from my sight. 

And I pluck'd a hollow reed.

And I made a rural pen, 

And I stain'd the water clear, 

And I wrote my happy songs 

Every child may joy to hear

~ William Blake

I Remember, I Remember

I remember, I remember, 

The house where I was born, 

The little window where the sun 

Came peeping in at morn; 

He never came a wink too soon, 

Nor brought too long a day, 

But now, I often wish the night 

Had borne my breath away! 

I remember, I remember, 

The roses, red and white, 

The vi'lets, and the lily-cups, 

Those flowers made of light! 

The lilacs where the robin built, 

And where my brother set 

The laburnum on his birthday,— 

The tree is living yet! 

I remember, I remember, 

Where I was used to swing, 

And thought the air must rush as fresh 

To swallows on the wing; 

My spirit flew in feathers then, 

That is so heavy now, 

And summer pools could hardly cool 

The fever on my brow! 

I remember, I remember, 

The fir trees dark and high; 

I used to think their slender tops 

Were close against the sky: 

It was a childish ignorance, 

But now 'tis little joy 

To know I'm farther off from heav'n 

Than when I was a boy. 

~ Thomas Hood

Greensleeves

Chorus: Greensleeves was all my joy,

Greensleeves was my delight;

Greensleeves was my heart of gold,

And who but my Lady Greensleeves.

Alas, my love, ye do me wrong,

To cast me off disc'urteously:

And I have loved you so long,

Delighting in your company.

Greensleeves was all my joy,

Greensleeves was my delight:

Greensleeves was my heart of gold,

And who but Lady Greensleeves.

I have been ready at your hand,

To grant what ever you would crave.

I have both waged life and land,

Your love and good will for to have.

Greensleeves was all my joy, etc.

I bought thee kerchers to thy head,

That were wrought fine and gallantly:

I kept thee both at board and bed,

Which cost my purse well favouredly,

I bought thee petticoats of the best,

The cloth so fine as fine might be:

I gave thee jewels for thy chest,

And all this cost I spent on thee.

Thy smock of silk, both fair and white,

With gold embroidered gorgeously:

Thy petticoat of sendal right:

And thus I bought thee gladly.

Thy girdle of gold so red,

With pearls bedecked sumptuously:

The like no other lasses had,

And yet thou wouldst not love me,

Thy purse and eke thy gay guilt knives,

Thy pincase gallant to the eye:

No better wore the burgess wives,

And yet thou wouldst not love me.

Thy crimson stockings all of silk,

With gold all wrought above the knee,

Thy pumps as white as was the milk,

And yet thou wouldst not love me.

Thy gown was of the grossy green,

Thy sleeves of satin hanging by:

Which made thee be our harvest Queen,

And yet thou wouldst not love me.

Thy garters fringed with the gold,

And silver aglets hanging by,

Which made thee blithe for to behold,

And yet thou wouldst not love me.

My gayest gelding I thee gave,

To ride where ever liked thee,

No Lady ever was so brave,

And yet thou wouldst not love me.

My men were clothed all in green,

And they did ever wait on thee:

All this was gallant to be seen,

And yet thou wouldst not love me.

They set thee up, they took thee down,

They served thee with humility,

Thy foot might not once touch the ground,

And yet thou wouldst not love me.

For every morning when thou rose,

I sent thee dainties orderly:

To cheer thy stomach from all woes,

And yet thou wouldst not love me.

Thou couldst desire no earthly thing.

But still thou hadst it readily:

Thy music still to play and sing,

And yet thou wouldst not love me.

And who did pay for all this gear,

That thou didst spend when pleased thee?

Even I that am rejected here,

And thou disdainst to love me.

Well, I will pray to God on high,

That thou my constancy mayst see:

And that yet once before I die,

Thou wilt vouchsafe to love me.

Greensleeves now farewell, adieu,

God I pray to prosper thee:

For I am still thy lover true,

Come once again and love me.

Chorus: Greensleeves was all my joy,

Greensleeves was my delight;

Greensleeves was my heart of gold,

And who but my Lady Greensleeves.

~ Anonymous

The Walrus and the Carpenter

"The sun was shining on the sea,

Shining with all his might:

He did his very best to make

The billows smooth and bright —

And this was odd, because it was

The middle of the night.

The moon was shining sulkily,

Because she thought the sun

Had got no business to be there

After the day was done —

"It's very rude of him," she said,

"To come and spoil the fun."

The sea was wet as wet could be,

The sands were dry as dry.

You could not see a cloud, because

No cloud was in the sky:

No birds were flying overhead —

There were no birds to fly.

The Walrus and the Carpenter

Were walking close at hand;

They wept like anything to see

Such quantities of sand:

If this were only cleared away,'

They said, it would be grand!'

If seven maids with seven mops

Swept it for half a year,

Do you suppose,' the Walrus said,

That they could get it clear?'

I doubt it,' said the Carpenter,

And shed a bitter tear.

O Oysters, come and walk with us!'

The Walrus did beseech.

A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,

Along the briny beach:

We cannot do with more than four,

To give a hand to each.'

The eldest Oyster looked at him,

But never a word he said:

The eldest Oyster winked his eye,

And shook his heavy head —

Meaning to say he did not choose

To leave the oyster-bed.

But four young Oysters hurried up,

All eager for the treat:

Their coats were brushed, their faces washed,

Their shoes were clean and neat —

And this was odd, because, you know,

They hadn't any feet.

Four other Oysters followed them,

And yet another four;

And thick and fast they came at last,

And more, and more, and more —

All hopping through the frothy waves,

And scrambling to the shore.

The Walrus and the Carpenter

Walked on a mile or so,

And then they rested on a rock

Conveniently low:

And all the little Oysters stood

And waited in a row.

The time has come,' the Walrus said,

To talk of many things:

Of shoes — and ships — and sealing-wax —

Of cabbages — and kings —

And why the sea is boiling hot —

And whether pigs have wings.'

But wait a bit,' the Oysters cried,

Before we have our chat;

For some of us are out of breath,

And all of us are fat!'

No hurry!' said the Carpenter.

They thanked him much for that.

A loaf of bread,' the Walrus said,

Is what we chiefly need:

Pepper and vinegar besides

Are very good indeed —

Now if you're ready, Oysters dear,

We can begin to feed.'

But not on us!' the Oysters cried,

Turning a little blue.

After such kindness, that would be

A dismal thing to do!'

The night is fine,' the Walrus said.

Do you admire the view?

It was so kind of you to come!

And you are very nice!'

The Carpenter said nothing but

Cut us another slice:

I wish you were not quite so deaf —

I've had to ask you twice!'

It seems a shame,' the Walrus said,

To play them such a trick,

After we've brought them out so far,

And made them trot so quick!'

The Carpenter said nothing but

The butter's spread too thick!'

I weep for you,' the Walrus said:

I deeply sympathize.'

With sobs and tears he sorted out

Those of the largest size,

Holding his pocket-handkerchief

Before his streaming eyes.

O Oysters,' said the Carpenter,

You've had a pleasant run!

Shall we be trotting home again?'

But answer came there none —

And this was scarcely odd, because

They'd eaten every one."

~ Lewis Carroll

Aiken Drum

There was a man lived in the moon,

and his name was Aiken Drum.

And he played upon a ladle,

and his name was Aiken Drum.

And his hat was made of good cream cheese,

and his name was Aiken Drum.

And he played upon a ladle, etc.

And his coat was made of good roast beef,

and his name was Aiken Drum.

And his buttons were made of penny loaves,

and his name was Aiken Drum.

His waistcoat was made of crust of pies,

and his name was Aiken Drum.

His breeches were made of haggis bags,

and his name was Aiken Drum.

There was a man in another town,

and his name was Willy Wood;

And he played upon a razor,

and his name was Willy Wood.

And he ate up all the good cream cheese,

and his name was Willy Wood.

And he played upon a razor, etc.

And he ate up all the good roast beef,

and his name was Willy Wood.

And he ate up all the penny loaves,

and his name was Willy Wood.

And he ate up all the good pie crust,

and his name was Willy Wood.

But he choked upon the haggis bags,

and there was an end of Willy Wood.

And he played upon a razor,

and his name was Willy Wood.

~ Anonymous

Wynken, Blynken, and Nod

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-fish

That 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 long

Ruffled the waves of dew;

The little stars were the herring-fish

That lived in the beautiful sea.

“Now cast your nets wherever you wish,—

Never afraid are we!”

So cried the stars to the fishermen three,

Wynken,

Blynken,

And Nod.

All night long their nets they threw

To the stars in the twinkling foam,—

Then down from the skies came the wooden shoe,

Bringing the fishermen home:

‘Twas all so pretty a sail, it seemed

As if it could not be;

And some folk thought ‘twas a dream they’d dreamed

Of 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 skies

Is a wee one’s trundle-bed;

So shut your eyes while Mother sings

Of 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.

~ Eugene Field

The Shooting of Dan McGrew

A bunch of the boys were whooping it up in the Malamute saloon; 

The kid that handles the music-box was hitting a jag-time tune; 

Back of the bar, in a solo game, sat Dangerous Dan McGrew, 

And watching his luck was his light-o'-love, the lady that's known as Lou. 

When out of the night, which was fifty below, and into the din and the glare, 

There stumbled a miner fresh from the creeks, dog-dirty, and loaded for bear. 

He looked like a man with a foot in the grave and scarcely the strength of a louse, 

Yet he tilted a poke of dust on the bar, and he called for drinks for the house. 

There was none could place the stranger's face, though we searched ourselves for a clue; 

But we drank his health, and the last to drink was Dangerous Dan McGrew. 

There's men that somehow just grip your eyes, and hold them hard like a spell; 

And such was he, and he looked to me like a man who had lived in hell; 

With a face most hair, and the dreary stare of a dog whose day is done, 

As he watered the green stuff in his glass, and the drops fell one by one. 

Then I got to figgering who he was, and wondering what he'd do, 

And I turned my head — and there watching him was the lady that's known as Lou. 

His eyes went rubbering round the room, and he seemed in a kind of daze, 

Till at last that old piano fell in the way of his wandering gaze. 

The rag-time kid was having a drink; there was no one else on the stool, 

So the stranger stumbles across the room, and flops down there like a fool. 

In a buckskin shirt that was glazed with dirt he sat, and I saw him sway; 

Then he clutched the keys with his talon hands — my God! but that man could play. 

Were you ever out in the Great Alone, when the moon was awful clear, 

And the icy mountains hemmed you in with a silence you most could hear; 

With only the howl of a timber wolf, and you camped there in the cold, 

A half-dead thing in a stark, dead world, clean mad for the muck called gold; 

While high overhead, green, yellow and red, the North Lights swept in bars? — 

Then you've a hunch what the music meant. . . hunger and night and the stars. 

And hunger not of the belly kind, that's banished with bacon and beans, 

But the gnawing hunger of lonely men for a home and all that it means; 

For a fireside far from the cares that are, four walls and a roof above; 

But oh! so cramful of cosy joy, and crowned with a woman's love — 

A woman dearer than all the world, and true as Heaven is true — 

(God! how ghastly she looks through her rouge, — the lady that's known as Lou.) 

Then on a sudden the music changed, so soft that you scarce could hear; 

But you felt that your life had been looted clean of all that it once held dear; 

That someone had stolen the woman you loved; that her love was a devil's lie; 

That your guts were gone, and the best for you was to crawl away and die. 

'Twas the crowning cry of a heart's despair, and it thrilled you through and through — 

"I guess I'll make it a spread misere", said Dangerous Dan McGrew. 

The music almost died away ... then it burst like a pent-up flood; 

And it seemed to say, "Repay, repay," and my eyes were blind with blood. 

The thought came back of an ancient wrong, and it stung like a frozen lash, 

And the lust awoke to kill, to kill ... then the music stopped with a crash, 

And the stranger turned, and his eyes they burned in a most peculiar way; 

In a buckskin shirt that was glazed with dirt he sat, and I saw him sway; 

Then his lips went in in a kind of grin, and he spoke, and his voice was calm, 

And "Boys," says he, "you don't know me, and none of you care a damn; 

But I want to state, and my words are straight, and I'll bet my poke they're true, 

That one of you is a hound of hell. . .and that one is Dan McGrew." 

Then I ducked my head, and the lights went out, and two guns blazed in the dark, 

And a woman screamed, and the lights went up, and two men lay stiff and stark. 

Pitched on his head, and pumped full of lead, was Dangerous Dan McGrew, 

While the man from the creeks lay clutched to the breast of the lady that's known as Lou. 

These are the simple facts of the case, and I guess I ought to know. 

They say that the stranger was crazed with "hooch," and I'm not denying it's so. 

I'm not so wise as the lawyer guys, but strictly between us two — 

The woman that kissed him and — pinched his poke — was the lady that's known as Lou.

~ Robert W. Service

The Wreck of the Hesperus

It was the schooner Hesperus, 

That sailed the wintry sea; 

And the skipper had taken his little daughtèr, 

To bear him company. 

Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax, 

Her cheeks like the dawn of day, 

And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds, 

That ope in the month of May. 

The skipper he stood beside the helm, 

His pipe was in his mouth, 

And he watched how the veering flaw did blow 

The smoke now West, now South. 

Then up and spake an old Sailòr, 

Had sailed to the Spanish Main, 

"I pray thee, put into yonder port, 

For I fear a hurricane. 

"Last night, the moon had a golden ring, 

And to-night no moon we see!" 

The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe, 

And a scornful laugh laughed he. 

Colder and louder blew the wind, 

A gale from the Northeast, 

The snow fell hissing in the brine, 

And the billows frothed like yeast. 

Down came the storm, and smote amain 

The vessel in its strength; 

She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed, 

Then leaped her cable's length. 

"Come hither! come hither! my little daughtèr, 

And do not tremble so; 

For I can weather the roughest gale 

That ever wind did blow." 

He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat 

Against the stinging blast; 

He cut a rope from a broken spar, 

And bound her to the mast. 

"O father! I hear the church-bells ring, 

Oh say, what may it be?" 

"'T is a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!" — 

And he steered for the open sea. 

"O father! I hear the sound of guns, 

Oh say, what may it be?" 

"Some ship in distress, that cannot live 

In such an angry sea!" 

"O father! I see a gleaming light, 

Oh say, what may it be?" 

But the father answered never a word, 

A frozen corpse was he. 

Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark, 

With his face turned to the skies, 

The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow 

On his fixed and glassy eyes. 

Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed 

That savèd she might be; 

And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave 

On the Lake of Galilee. 

And fast through the midnight dark and drear, 

Through the whistling sleet and snow, 

Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept 

Tow'rds the reef of Norman's Woe. 

And ever the fitful gusts between 

A sound came from the land; 

It was the sound of the trampling surf 

On the rocks and the hard sea-sand. 

The breakers were right beneath her bows, 

She drifted a dreary wreck, 

And a whooping billow swept the crew 

Like icicles from her deck. 

She struck where the white and fleecy waves 

Looked soft as carded wool, 

But the cruel rocks, they gored her side 

Like the horns of an angry bull. 

Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice, 

With the masts went by the board; 

Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank, 

Ho! ho! the breakers roared! 

At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach, 

A fisherman stood aghast, 

To see the form of a maiden fair, 

Lashed close to a drifting mast. 

The salt sea was frozen on her breast, 

The salt tears in her eyes; 

And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed, 

On the billows fall and rise. 

Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, 

In the midnight and the snow! 

Christ save us all from a death like this, 

On the reef of Norman's Woe! 

~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The Charge of the Light Brigade

Half a league, half a league, 

Half a league onward, 

All in the valley of Death 

Rode the six hundred. 

“Forward, the Light Brigade! 

Charge for the guns!” he said. 

Into the valley of Death 

Rode the six hundred. 

“Forward, the Light Brigade!” 

Was there a man dismayed? 

Not though the soldier knew 

Someone had blundered. 

Theirs not to make reply, 

Theirs not to reason why, 

Theirs but to do and die. 

Into the valley of Death 

Rode the six hundred. 

Cannon to right of them, 

Cannon to left of them, 

Cannon in front of them 

Volleyed and thundered; 

Stormed at with shot and shell, 

Boldly they rode and well, 

Into the jaws of Death, 

Into the mouth of hell 

Rode the six hundred. 

Flashed all their sabres bare, 

Flashed as they turned in air 

Sabring the gunners there, 

Charging an army, while 

All the world wondered. 

Plunged in the battery-smoke 

Right through the line they broke; 

Cossack and Russian 

Reeled from the sabre stroke 

Shattered and sundered. 

Then they rode back, but not 

Not the six hundred. 

Cannon to right of them, 

Cannon to left of them, 

Cannon behind them 

Volleyed and thundered; 

Stormed at with shot and shell, 

While horse and hero fell. 

They that had fought so well 

Came through the jaws of Death, 

Back from the mouth of hell, 

All that was left of them, 

Left of six hundred. 

When can their glory fade? 

O the wild charge they made! 

All the world wondered. 

Honour the charge they made! 

Honour the Light Brigade, 

Noble six hundred!

~ Alfred, Lord Tennyson

The Ballad of the Oysterman

It was a tall young oysterman lived by the river-side,

His shop was just upon the bank, his boat was on the tide;

The daughter of a fisherman, that was so straight and slim,

Lived over on the other bank, right opposite to him.

It was the pensive oysterman that saw a lovely maid,

Upon a moonlight evening, a sitting in the shade;

He saw her wave her handkerchief, as much as if to say,

'I 'm wide awake, young oysterman, and all the folks away.'

Then up arose the oysterman, and to himself said he,

'I guess I 'll leave the skiff at home, for fear that folks should see

I read it in the story-book, that, for to kiss his dear,

Leander swam the Hellespont,--and I will swim this here.'

And he has leaped into the waves, and crossed the shining stream,

And he has clambered up the bank, all in the moonlight gleam;

Oh there were kisses sweet as dew, and words as soft as rain,--

But they have heard her father's step, and in he leaps again!

Out spoke the ancient fisherman,--'Oh, what was that, my daughter?'

''Twas nothing but a pebble, sir, I threw into the water.'

'And what is that, pray tell me, love, that paddles off so fast?'

'It's nothing but a porpoise, sir, that 's been a swimming past.'

Out spoke the ancient fisherman,--'Now bring me my harpoon!

I'll get into my fishing-boat, and fix the fellow soon.'

Down fell that pretty innocent, as falls a snow-white lamb,

Her hair drooped round her pallid cheeks, like sea-weed on a clam.

Alas for those two loving ones! she waked not from her swound,

And he was taken with the cramp, and in the waves was drowned;

But Fate has metamorphosed them, in pity of their woe,

And now they keep an oyster-shop for mermaids down below.

~ Oliver Wendell Holmes

The Raven

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 mortal 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 blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,

With such name as “Nevermore.”

But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.

Nothing farther 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 lamp-light gloated o’er,

But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,

She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer

Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls 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 of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—

“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!

Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!

Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”

Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;

And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,

And the lamp-light 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!

~ Edgar Allan Poe

La Belle Dame Sans Merci

O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, 

Alone and palely loitering? 

The sedge has withered from the lake, 

And no birds sing. 

O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, 

So haggard and so woe-begone? 

The squirrel’s granary is full, 

And the harvest’s done. 

I see a lily on thy brow, 

With anguish moist and fever-dew, 

And on thy cheeks a fading rose 

Fast withereth too. 

I met a lady in the meads, 

Full beautiful—a faery’s child, 

Her hair was long, her foot was light, 

And her eyes were wild. 

I made a garland for her head, 

And bracelets too, and fragrant zone; 

She looked at me as she did love, 

And made sweet moan 

I set her on my pacing steed, 

And nothing else saw all day long, 

For sidelong would she bend, and sing 

A faery’s song. 

She found me roots of relish sweet, 

And honey wild, and manna-dew, 

And sure in language strange she said— 

‘I love thee true’. 

She took me to her Elfin grot, 

And there she wept and sighed full sore, 

And there I shut her wild wild eyes 

With kisses four. 

And there she lullèd me asleep, 

And there I dreamed—Ah! woe betide!— 

The latest dream I ever dreamt 

On the cold hill side. 

I saw pale kings and princes too, 

Pale warriors, death-pale were they all; 

They cried—‘La Belle Dame sans Merci 

Thee hath in thrall!’ 

I saw their starved lips in the gloam, 

With horrid warning gapèd wide, 

And I awoke and found me here, 

On the cold hill’s side. 

And this is why I sojourn here, 

Alone and palely loitering, 

Though the sedge is withered from the lake, 

And no birds sing.

~ John Keats

The Battle of the Kegs

Gallants attend, and hear a friend

Trill forth harmonious ditty;

Strange things I'll tell, which late befel

In Philadelphia city.

'Twas early day, as Poets say,

Just when the sun was rising;

A soldier stood on a log of wood

And saw a sight surprising.

As in a maze he stood to gaze,

The truth can't be deny'd, Sir;

He spy'd a score of kegs, or more,

Come floating down the tide, Sir.

A sailor too, in jerkin blue,

This strange appearance viewing,

First damn'd his eyes in great surprize,

Then said — " Some mischief's brewing:

" These kegs now hold the rebels bold

Pack'd up like pickl'd herring,

And they're come down t'attack the town

In this new way of ferrying. "

The soldier flew, the sailor too,

And scar'd almost to death, Sir,

Wore out their shoes to spread the news,

And ran 'til out of breath, Sir.

Now up and down throughout the town

Most frantic scenes were acted;

And some ran here and others there,

Like men almost distracted.

Some fire cry'd, which some deny'd,

But said the earth had quaked;

And girls and boys, with hideous noise,

Ran thro' the streets half naked.

Sir William he, snug as a flea,

Lay all this time a snoring;

Nor dreamt of harm, as he lay warm

In bed with Mrs. Loring .

Now in a fright he starts upright,

Awak'd by such a clatter;

First rubs his eyes, then boldly cries,

" For God's sake, what's the matter? "

At his bed side he then espy'd

Sir Erskine at command, Sir;

Upon one foot he had one boot

And t'other in his hand, Sir.

" Arise, arise, " Sir Erskine cries,

" The rebels — more's the pity!

Without a boat, are all afloat

And rang'd before the city.

" The motley crew, in vessels new,

With Satan for their guide, Sir,

Pack'd up in bags, and wooden kegs,

Come driving down the tide, Sir.

" Therefore prepare for bloody war,

These kegs must all be routed,

Or surely we despis'd shall be,

And British valour doubted. "

The royal band now ready stand,

All rang'd in dread array, Sir,

On every slip, in every ship,

For to begin the fray, Sir.

The cannons roar from shore to shore,

The small arms make a rattle;

Since wars began I'm sure no man

E'er saw so strange a battle.

The rebel dales — the rebel vales,

With rebel trees surrounded;

The distant woods, the hills and floods,

With rebel echoes sounded.

The fish below swam to and fro,

Attack'd from ev'ry quarter;

Why sure, thought they, the De'il's to pay

'Mong folks above the water.

The kegs, 'tis said, tho' strongly made

Of rebel staves and hoops, Sir,

Could not oppose their pow'rful foes,

The conqu'ring British troops, Sir.

From morn to night these men of might

Display'd amazing courage;

And when the sun was fairly down,

Retir'd to sup their porridge.

One hundred men, with each a pen

Or more, upon my word, Sir,

It is most true, would be too few

Their valour to record, Sir.

Such feats did they perform that day

Against these wicked kegs, Sir,

That years to come, if they get home ,

They'll make their boasts and brag, Sir.

~ Francis Hopkinson

Sir Patrick Spence

The king sits in Dumferling toune,

Drinking the blude-reid wine:

"O whar will I get guid sailor,

To sail this schip of mine?"

Up and spak an eldern knicht,

Sat at the kings richt kne:

"Sir Patrick Spence is the best sailor

That sails upon the se."

The king has written a braid letter,

And signd it wi his hand,

And sent it to Sir Patrick Spence,

Was walking on the sand.

The first line that Sir Patrick red,

A loud lauch lauched he;

The next line that Sir Patrick red,

The teir blinded his ee.

"O wha is this has don this deid,

This ill deid don to me,

To send me out this time o' the yeir,

To sail upon the se!

"Mak hast, mak haste, my mirry men all,

Our guid schip sails the morne:"

"O say na sae, my master deir,

For I feir a deadlie storme.

"Late late yestreen I saw the new moone,

Wi the auld moone in hir arme,

And I feir, I feir, my deir master,

That we will cum to harme."

O our Scots nobles wer richt laith

To weet their cork-heild schoone;

Bot lang owre a' the play wer playd,

Thair hats they swam aboone.

O lang, lang may their ladies sit,

Wi thair fans into their hand,

Or eir they se Sir Patrick Spence

Cum sailing to the land.

O lang, lang may the ladies stand,

Wi thair gold kems in their hair,

Waiting for thair ain deir lords,

For they'll se thame na mair.

Haf owre, haf owre to Aberdour,

It's fiftie fadom deip,

And thair lies guid Sir Patrick Spence,

Wi the Scots lords at his feit. 

~ Anonymous

The Marshes of Glynn

Glooms of the live-oaks, beautiful-braided and woven 

With intricate shades of the vines that myriad-cloven 

Clamber the forks of the multiform boughs, -- 

Emerald twilights, -- 

Virginal shy lights, 

Wrought of the leaves to allure to the whisper of vows, 

When lovers pace timidly down through the green colonnades 

Of the dim sweet woods, of the dear dark woods, 

Of the heavenly woods and glades, 

That run to the radiant marginal sand-beach within 

The wide sea-marshes of Glynn; -- 

Beautiful glooms, soft dusks in the noon-day fire, -- 

Wildwood privacies, closets of lone desire, 

Chamber from chamber parted with wavering arras of leaves, -- 

Cells for the passionate pleasure of prayer to the soul that grieves, 

Pure with a sense of the passing of saints through the wood, 

Cool for the dutiful weighing of ill with good; -- 

O braided dusks of the oak and woven shades of the vine, 

While the riotous noon-day sun of the June-day long did shine 

Ye held me fast in your heart and I held you fast in mine; 

But now when the noon is no more, and riot is rest, 

And the sun is a-wait at the ponderous gate of the West, 

And the slant yellow beam down the wood-aisle doth seem 

Like a lane into heaven that leads from a dream, -- 

Ay, now, when my soul all day hath drunken the soul of the oak, 

And my heart is at ease from men, and the wearisome sound of the stroke 

Of the scythe of time and the trowel of trade is low, 

And belief overmasters doubt, and I know that I know, 

And my spirit is grown to a lordly great compass within, 

That the length and the breadth and the sweep of the marshes of Glynn 

Will work me no fear like the fear they have wrought me of yore 

When length was fatigue, and when breadth was but bitterness sore, 

And when terror and shrinking and dreary unnamable pain 

Drew over me out of the merciless miles of the plain, 

Oh, now, unafraid, I am fain to face 

The vast sweet visage of space. 

To the edge of the wood I am drawn, I am drawn, 

Where the gray beach glimmering runs, as a belt of the dawn, 

For a mete and a mark 

To the forest-dark: -- 

So: 

Affable live-oak, leaning low, -- 

Thus -- with your favor -- soft, with a reverent hand, 

(Not lightly touching your person, Lord of the land!) 

Bending your beauty aside, with a step I stand 

On the firm-packed sand, 

Free 

By a world of marsh that borders a world of sea. 

Sinuous southward and sinuous northward the shimmering band 

Of the sand-beach fastens the fringe of the marsh to the folds of the land. 

Inward and outward to northward and southward the beach-lines 

linger and curl 

As a silver-wrought garment that clings to and follows 

the firm sweet limbs of a girl. 

Vanishing, swerving, evermore curving again into sight, 

Softly the sand-beach wavers away to a dim gray looping of light. 

And what if behind me to westward the wall of the woods stands high? 

The world lies east: how ample, the marsh and the sea and the sky! 

A league and a league of marsh-grass, waist-high, broad in the blade, 

Green, and all of a height, and unflecked with a light or a shade, 

Stretch leisurely off, in a pleasant plain, 

To the terminal blue of the main. 

Oh, what is abroad in the marsh and the terminal sea? 

Somehow my soul seems suddenly free 

From the weighing of fate and the sad discussion of sin, 

By the length and the breadth and the sweep of the marshes of Glynn. 

Ye marshes, how candid and simple and nothing-withholding and free 

Ye publish yourselves to the sky and offer yourselves to the sea! 

Tolerant plains, that suffer the sea and the rains and the sun, 

Ye spread and span like the catholic man who hath mightily won 

God out of knowledge and good out of infinite pain 

And sight out of blindness and purity out of a stain. 

As the marsh-hen secretly builds on the watery sod, 

Behold I will build me a nest on the greatness of God: 

I will fly in the greatness of God as the marsh-hen flies 

In the freedom that fills all the space 'twixt the marsh and the skies: 

By so many roots as the marsh-grass sends in the sod 

I will heartily lay me a-hold on the greatness of God: 

Oh, like to the greatness of God is the greatness within 

The range of the marshes, the liberal marshes of Glynn. 

And the sea lends large, as the marsh: lo, out of his plenty the sea 

Pours fast: full soon the time of the flood-tide must be: 

Look how the grace of the sea doth go 

About and about through the intricate channels that flow 

Here and there, 

Everywhere, 

Till his waters have flooded the uttermost creeks and the low-lying lanes, 

And the marsh is meshed with a million veins, 

That like as with rosy and silvery essences flow 

In the rose-and-silver evening glow. 

Farewell, my lord Sun! 

The creeks overflow: a thousand rivulets run 

'Twixt the roots of the sod; the blades of the marsh-grass stir; 

Passeth a hurrying sound of wings that westward whirr; 

Passeth, and all is still; and the currents cease to run; 

And the sea and the marsh are one. 

How still the plains of the waters be! 

The tide is in his ecstasy. 

The tide is at his highest height: 

And it is night. 

And now from the Vast of the Lord will the waters of sleep 

Roll in on the souls of men, 

But who will reveal to our waking ken 

The forms that swim and the shapes that creep 

Under the waters of sleep? 

And I would I could know what swimmeth below when the tide comes in 

On the length and the breadth of the marvellous marshes of Glynn.

~ Sidney Lanier