Favourite Poems and Prose

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You may give [Children] your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of to-morrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them,
but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with Yesterday.

From "The Prophet" by Kahlil Gibran.


As for prose, "Cultural Amnesia" by Clive James, and many of his Essays.

I would love to read Sir Browne, Rilke, and Rumi's Love Poems. And maybe Chesterton, and Zen Haiku.

Shakespeare, Henry V, act V scene VI

Gloucester: What! will the aspiring blood of Lancaster
Sink in the ground? I thought it would have mounted. 64
See how my sword weeps for the poor king’s death!
O! may such purple tears be always shed
From those that wish the downfall of our house.
If any spark of life be yet remaining, 68
Down, down to hell; and say I sent thee thither, [Stabs him again.
I, that have neither pity, love, nor fear.
Indeed, ’tis true, that Henry told me of;
For I have often heard my mother say 72
I came into the world with my legs forward.
Had I not reason, think ye, to make haste,
And seek their ruin that usurp’d our right?
The midwife wonder’d, and the women cried 76
‘O! Jesus bless us, he is born with teeth.’
And so I was; which plainly signified
That I should snarl and bite and play the dog.
Then, since the heavens have shap’d my body so, 80
Let hell make crook’d my mind to answer it.
I have no brother, I am like no brother;
And this word ‘love,’ which greybeards call divine,
Be resident in men like one another 84
And not in me: I am myself alone.
Clarence, beware; thou keep’st me from the light:
But I will sort a pitchy day for thee;
For I will buzz abroad such prophecies 88
That Edward shall be fearful of his life;
And then, to purge his fear, I’ll be thy death.
King Henry and the prince his son are gone:
Clarence, thy turn is next, and then the rest, 92
Counting myself but bad till I be best.
I’ll throw thy body in another room,
And triumph, Henry, in thy day of doom. [Exit with the body.

"Ode To A Small Lump Of Green Putty I Found In My Armpit One Midsummer Morning"


Putty. Putty. Putty.
Green Putty - Grutty Peen.
Grarmpitutty - Morning!
Pridsummer - Grorning Utty!
Discovery..... Oh.
Putty?..... Armpit?
Armpit..... Putty.
Not even a particularly
Nice shade of green.

~ Grunthos the Flatulent.

From: CYMBELINE by William Shakespeare, Act IV, Scene 2:

Year after year
The monkey's mask
Reveals the monkey.

Basho

I prefer poems with a consistent cadence, that rhyme. I liked the movie Bullworth for that reason alone.

I like a few of Emily Dickinson's poems...and Dr. Seuss.

The tortoise and the hare by Vikram Seth

Once or twice upon a time
In the land of Runnyrhyme
Lived a hare both hot and heady
And a tortoise slow and steady.

When at noon the hare awoke
She would tell herself a joke.
Squeal with laughter, roll about,
Eat her eggs and sauerkraut,
Then pick up the phone and babble,
-‘Gibble-gabble, gibble-gabble’ –
To her friends the mouse and mole
And the empty-headed vole:
“Hey, girls, did you know the rat
Was rejected by the bat?’
“Good for her! The rat’s a fool!”
“Oh, I think he’s kinda cool.”
“Too bad, darling, now he’s dating
Lady Lemming’s maid-in-waiting.’
“What – that hamster? You don’t say!” –
Gibble-gabble every day!
Gibble-gabble everywhere
Went the mouse and mole and hare –
Gibble-gabble, gibble-gabble.
Oh, what riffraff! Oh, what rabble!

But the tortoise, when he rose,
Daily counted all his toes
Twice or three times to ensure
There were neither less nor more.
Next he’d tally the amount
In his savings bank account.
Then he’d very carefully
Count his grandsons: one, two, three –
Ed, and Ned, and Fred by name.
And his sermon was the same:
“Eddy, Neddy, Freddy – boys –
You must never break your toys
You must often floss your gums.
You must always do your sums.
Buy your own house; don’t pay rent.
Save your funds at six per cent.
Major in accountancy.
And grow up to be like me.
Listen, Eddy, Neddy, Freddy –
You be slow – but you be steady.”

One day by the Fauna Fountain
Near the noble Mammal Mountain
Where the ducks and ducklings dabble,
Hare and mouse went: “Gibble-gabble,
Gibble-gabble – look who’s coming!”
And the hare began a-giggling:
“Well, it isn’t Samuel Pigling
-That’s for sure – or Peter Rabbit
Or Sir Fox in hunting habit.
Even Hedgehog Roly-Poly
Wouldn’t ever walk so slowly.
Inch by inch by inch he’s crawling.
How pathetic! How appalling!
He won’t get here in an hour
If he uses turtle-power.”

“Teddy Tortoise, go and grab
Tram or train or taxi-cab!”
Squealed the hare; I have no doubt
You can shell the money out!”
And at this disgraceful pun
Hare and mouse both squealed with fun,
Ran around the tortoise twice,
Fell into the fountain thrice,
Swam, and sang out as they swam:
“I’m a tortoise – yes, I am!
See me swimming! Glug, glug, glug!
I’m a tortoise! No, a slug!”

Now the tortoise snapped the air,
And addressed the hare-brained hare:
“Madam, you are rash and young
And should mind your mindless tongue.
Doubtless, Madam, hares exceed
Tortoises by far in speed.
But, were we to run a race,
I, not you, would win first place.
Slowly, surely I’d defeat you.
Trust me, Madam, I would beat you.”

“Darling Tortoise,” drawled the hare,
“I would thrash you anywhere –
Marsh or mountain, hill or dale,
Field or forest, rain or hail!”
Snapped the tortoise slow and steady:
“Choose your place, and I’ll be ready.
Choose your time, and make it soon.”
“Here!” the hare said: “Sunday noon.”

So, at the appointed time
All the beasts of Runnyrhyme
-Every reptile, bird, or mammal
From the koala to the camel –
Gathered to behold the race,
Gobbled popcorn, guzzled beer,
And exclaimed: “They’re here! They’re here!”
At the starting block the steady
Tortoise flexed his toes, quite ready;
But the flighty hare, still wearing
Her silk nightie, kept on staring
At the mirror while the press
Took her words down, more or less.
Young reporters sought her views
For the “Rhyme and Runny News”.
“What’s at stake besides the honour?”
“Is the tortoise, Ma’am, a goner?”
“Why did you agree to run?”
“Is the race already won?”
Pouting out her scarlet lips,
Sweetly wiggling head and hips,
Making wolves feel weak inside,
Languidly Ms Hare replied:
“Teddy Tortoise, don’t you see,
Has this awful crush on me.
Why, he thinks I’m simply stunning.
That’s why, darlings, I am running.
And I’ve staked the cup I won
When I was Miss Honeybun …
Who will win? Why – can’t you tell?
Read the lipstick on his shell.”
There she’d smeared a scarlet ‘2’
And the words: ‘Mock Turtil Stew.’

Soon the starting gun was heard
And a secretary bird
Gently murmured: “It’s begun.
Ma’am, perhaps you ought to run.’
“No,” the hare laughed – “Oh, no, no!
Teddy Tortoise is so slow.
Let him have a little start.
I don’t want to break his heart.”

But the tortoise plodded on
Like a small automaton,
Muttering, as he held his pace:
“I have got to win this race.”

Two hours passed. In satin shorts
Cut for fashion more than sports,
Ms Hare once again appeared,
Yawning softly as she neared:
“Two o’clock! My beauty sleep!”
“Ma’am, the race - ?” “The race will keep.
Really, it’s already won.”
And she stretched out in the sun.

Two hours passed. The hare awoke
And she stretched and yawned and spoke:
“Where’s the tortoise?” “Out of sight.”
“Oh,” the hare said: “Really? Right!
Time to go – “ and off she bounded,
Leaving all her friends astounded
At her rocket-fuelled pace.
“Sure!” they said, “She’ll win this race.”
She was out of sight already
On the heels of Tortoise Teddy.

Suddenly the dizzy hare
Saw a field of mushrooms where
Champignons and chanterelles
Mixed with devils-of –the-dell.
(This last mushroom, I suspect,
Has a cerebral effect.
Every time I eat one, I
Feel I’m floating in the sky.)
“How delicious! What a treat!”
Said the hare: “I’ll stop and eat.”
So she did, and very soon
She was singing out of tune,
And she lurched towards the wood,
Shouting to the neighbourhood:
“Boring, boring, life is boring.
Birdies, help me go exploring.
Let’s go off the beaten track.
In a minute I’ll be back – “
Off the hare went, fancy-free.
One hour passed, then two, then three.

But the tortoise plodded on
Now the day was almost gone
And the sun was sinking low –
Very steady, very slow –
And he saw the finish line
And he thought, “The race is mine!” –
And the gold cup was in sight
Glinting in the golden light –
When with an impassioned air
Someone screamed: “Look! Look! The hare!” –
And the punters started jumping,
And the tortoise heard a thumping
Close behind him on the track,
And he wanted to look back –
For the hare was roused at last
And was gaining on him fast –
And had almost caught him up
And retrieved her golden cup
When the tortoise, mouth agape,
Crossed the line and bit the tape.

After the announcer’s gun
Had pronounced that he had won,
And the cheering of the crowd
Died at last, the tortoise bowed,
Clasped the cup with quiet pride,
And sat down, self-satisfied.
And he thought: “That silly hare!
So much for her charm and flair.
So much for her idle boast.
In her cup I’ll raise a toast
To hard work and regularity.
Silly creature! Such vulgarity!
Now she’ll learn that sure and slow
Is the only way to go –
That you can’t rise to the top
With a skip, a jump, a hop –
That you’ve got to hatch your eggs,
That you’ve got to count your legs,
That you’ve got to do your duty,
Not depend on verve and beauty.
When the press comes, I shall say
That she’s been shell-shocked today!
What a well-deserved disgrace
That the fool has lost this race.”

But it was in fact the hare,
With a calm insouciant air
Like an unrepentant bounder,
Who allured the pressmen round her.
“Oh, Miss Hare, you’re so appealing
When you’re sweating,” said one, squealing.
“You have tendered gold and booty
To the shrine of sleep and beauty,”
Breathed another, overawed;
And Will Wolf, the great press lord
Filled a gold cup – on a whim –
With huge rubies to the brim
-Gorgeous rubies, bold and bright,
Red as cherries, rich with light –
And with an inviting grin
Murmured: “In my eyes you win.”

And perhaps she had; the hare
Suddenly was everywhere.
Stories of her quotes and capers
Made front page in all the papers –
And the sleepy BBC
-Beastly Broadcast Company –
Beamed a feature in the news:
“All the World Lost for a Snooze” –
Soon she saw her name in lights,
Sold a book and movie rights,
While a travel magazine
Bought the story, sight unseen,
Of her three hour expedition
To the wood – called “Mushroom Mission”.
Soon the cash came pouring in,
And to save it was a sin –
So she bought a manor house
Where she lived with mole and mouse –
And her friends, when they played Scrabble
Gibble-gabble, gibble-gabble,
Gibble-gabble all the way –
Let her spell Compete with K.

Thus the hare was pampered rotten
And the tortoise was forgotten.

Come, fill the Cup, and in the Fire of Spring
The Winter Garment of Repentance fling:
The Bird of Time has but a little way
To fly - and Lo! the Bird is on the Wing.

verse VII from The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam (Fitzgerald translation)

Robert Frost is also a favorite. Here is the start of "The Mountain":

The mountain held the town as in a shadow
I saw so much before I slept there once:
I noticed that I missed stars in the west,
Where its black body cut into the sky.
Near me it seemed: I felt it like a wall
Behind which I was sheltered from a wind.
And yet between the town and it I found,
When I walked forth at dawn to see new things,
Were fields, a river, and beyond, more fields.
The river at the time was fallen away,
And made a widespread brawl on cobble-stones;
But the signs showed what it had done in spring;
Good grass-land gullied out, and in the grass
Ridges of sand, and driftwood stripped of bark.
I crossed the river and swung round the mountain.
And there I met a man who moved so slow
With white-faced oxen in a heavy cart,
It seemed no harm to stop him altogether.

Voltaire, "Goodnight Demonslayer"

There's a monster that lives neath your bed
Oh for crying out loud it's a futon on the floor
He must be flat as a board

There's a creature that lurks behind the door
Though I've checked there 15 times
When I leave then he arrives
Every night

Tell the monster that lives neath your bed
To go somewhere else instead
Or you'll kick him in the head

Tell the creature that lurks behind the door
If he knows what's good he won't come here anymore
Cause you'll kick in his butt at the count of four

Goodnight demon slayer, goodnight
Now its time to close your tired eyes
There are devils to slay and dragons to ride
If they see you coming, hell they better hide

Goodnight, goodnight, goodnight
Goodnight my little slayer goodnight

Tell the monster that eats children, that you taste bad
And you're sure you'd be the worst that he's ever had
If he eats you, don't fret, just cut him open with an axe
Don't regret it, he deserved it, he's a cad

Tell the harpies that land on your bed post
That at the count of five you'll roast them alive
Tell the devil its time you gave him his due
He should go back to hell, he should shake in his shoes
Cause the mightiest, scariest, creature is you

Goodnight demon slayer, goodnight
Now its time to close your tired eyes
There are devils to slay and dragons to ride
If they see you coming, hell they better hide

Goodnight, goodnight, goodnight
Goodnight my little slayer goodnight

I won't tell you, there's nothing neath your bed
I won't tell you, that it's all in your head
This world of ours is not as it seems
The monsters are real but not in your dreams
Learn what you can from the beasts you defeat,
you'll need it for some of the people you meet

Goodnight demon slayer, goodnight
Now its time to close your tired eyes
There are devils to slay and dragons to ride
If they see you coming, hell they better hide

Goodnight, goodnight, goodnight
Goodnight my little slayer goodnight

Goodnight, goodnight, goodnight
Goodnight

and



Think these three are from William Blake's Songs of Innocence "A Cradle song" Is my favorite of these three although there are more in the book.


^forgot I had saved this one to a note also.(same book)

One of the most beautiful poems I know:

William Blake - Auguries of Innocence

To see a world in a grain of sand,
And a heaven in a wild flower,
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand,
And eternity in an hour.

A robin redbreast in a cage
Puts all heaven in a rage.

A dove-house fill'd with doves and pigeons
Shudders hell thro' all its regions.
A dog starv'd at his master's gate
Predicts the ruin of the state.

A horse misused upon the road
Calls to heaven for human blood.
Each outcry of the hunted hare
A fibre from the brain does tear.

A skylark wounded in the wing,
A cherubim does cease to sing.
The game-cock clipt and arm'd for fight
Does the rising sun affright.

Every wolf's and lion's howl
Raises from hell a human soul.

The wild deer, wand'ring here and there,
Keeps the human soul from care.
The lamb misus'd breeds public strife,
And yet forgives the butcher's knife.

The bat that flits at close of eve
Has left the brain that won't believe.
The owl that calls upon the night
Speaks the unbeliever's fright.

He who shall hurt the little wren
Shall never be belov'd by men.
He who the ox to wrath has mov'd
Shall never be by woman lov'd.

The wanton boy that kills the fly
Shall feel the spider's enmity.
He who torments the chafer's sprite
Weaves a bower in endless night.

The caterpillar on the leaf
Repeats to thee thy mother's grief.
Kill not the moth nor butterfly,
For the last judgement draweth nigh.

He who shall train the horse to war
Shall never pass the polar bar.
The beggar's dog and widow's cat,
Feed them and thou wilt grow fat.

The gnat that sings his summer's song
Poison gets from slander's tongue.
The poison of the snake and newt
Is the sweat of envy's foot.

The poison of the honey bee
Is the artist's jealousy.

The prince's robes and beggar's rags
Are toadstools on the miser's bags.
A truth that's told with bad intent
Beats all the lies you can invent.

It is right it should be so;
Man was made for joy and woe;
And when this we rightly know,
Thro' the world we safely go.

Joy and woe are woven fine,
A clothing for the soul divine.
Under every grief and pine
Runs a joy with silken twine.

The babe is more than swaddling bands;
Every farmer understands.
Every tear from every eye
Becomes a babe in eternity;

This is caught by females bright,
And return'd to its own delight.
The bleat, the bark, bellow, and roar,
Are waves that beat on heaven's shore.

The babe that weeps the rod beneath
Writes revenge in realms of death.
The beggar's rags, fluttering in air,
Does to rags the heavens tear.

The soldier, arm'd with sword and gun,
Palsied strikes the summer's sun.
The poor man's farthing is worth more
Than all the gold on Afric's shore.

One mite wrung from the lab'rer's hands
Shall buy and sell the miser's lands;
Or, if protected from on high,
Does that whole nation sell and buy.

He who mocks the infant's faith
Shall be mock'd in age and death.
He who shall teach the child to doubt
The rotting grave shall ne'er get out.

He who respects the infant's faith
Triumphs over hell and death.
The child's toys and the old man's reasons
Are the fruits of the two seasons.

The questioner, who sits so sly,
Shall never know how to reply.
He who replies to words of doubt
Doth put the light of knowledge out.

The strongest poison ever known
Came from Caesar's laurel crown.
Nought can deform the human race
Like to the armour's iron brace.

When gold and gems adorn the plow,
To peaceful arts shall envy bow.
A riddle, or the cricket's cry,
Is to doubt a fit reply.

The emmet's inch and eagle's mile
Make lame philosophy to smile.
He who doubts from what he sees
Will ne'er believe, do what you please.

If the sun and moon should doubt,
They'd immediately go out.
To be in a passion you good may do,
But no good if a passion is in you.

The whore and gambler, by the state
Licensed, build that nation's fate.
The harlot's cry from street to street
Shall weave old England's winding-sheet.

The winner's shout, the loser's curse,
Dance before dead England's hearse.

Every night and every morn
Some to misery are born,
Every morn and every night
Some are born to sweet delight.

Some are born to sweet delight,
Some are born to endless night.

We are led to believe a lie
When we see not thro' the eye,
Which was born in a night to perish in a night,
When the soul slept in beams of light.

God appears, and God is light,
To those poor souls who dwell in night;
But does a human form display
To those who dwell in realms of day.

Some of my favourite poems are by T. S. Eliot. It was reading La Figlia che Piange and The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock that first convinced me that good poems don't have to have a definite rhyme scheme and rhythm. I love how he makes the words dance and flow.

La Figlia che Piange by T. S. Eliot

Stand on the highest pavement of the stair—
Lean on a garden urn—
Weave, weave the sunlight in your hair—
Clasp your flowers to you with a pained surprise—
Fling them to the ground and turn
With a fugitive resentment in your eyes:
But weave, weave the sunlight in your hair.

So I would have had him leave,
So I would have had her stand and grieve,
So he would have left
As the soul leaves the body torn and bruised,
As the mind deserts the body it has used.
I should find
Some way incomparably light and deft,
Some way we both should understand,
Simple and faithless as a smile and shake of the hand.

She turned away, but with the autumn weather
Compelled my imagination many days,
Many days and many hours:
Her hair over her arms and her arms full of flowers.
And I wonder how they should have been together!
I should have lost a gesture and a pose.
Sometimes these cogitations still amaze
The troubled midnight and the noon’s repose.

Last edited by Gremmie on 14 Dec 2010, 9:26 am, edited 1 time in total.

Here is my faverote poem that I wrote, and not be egotistical, it is my faverote poem too

Grandpa Tree
(Second Ed)

His roots bridging over the sacred liquid provider
rippling as
the water passes over the slightest mounds of pebbles
almost
like laugh lines of an old Cherokee woman’s face.

As I sit in the rootish lap of Grampa tree,
I congregate with the elder trees who
teach me the ways
before
the Great Disrespect.
The liquid natural mystic dances over the remnant of
winter bundled together bonding with the moss and the soft ground below.
Light warps through the transparent union
illuminating
the obedience of the earth to her gentle,
but firm will. She invites her stony freckled servant
by whom she travels with
into a celebration of laughter as the sunlight
dances through them accordingly...displaying
her beauty and the earth’s complexion.

In Grampa tree’s lap mentored by the ancient embryonic fluid of
life,
I learn wisdom of the earth,
in which the world knows not, nor
the mind can understand, or words speak, but
my spirit remembers the watery
birth of life.

I know this will be a groan for many, it was the first thing that came to mind.

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveller, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

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

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, 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 sigh
Somewhere 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

...Robert Frost

Fire and Ice by robert frost:
Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.


I Shall Not Live In Vain by Emily Dickinson

If I can stop one Heart from breaking
I shall not live in vain
If I can ease one Life the Aching
Or cool one Pain
Or help one fainting Robin
Unto his Nest again
I shall not live in Vain.

Edgar Allan Poe: 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 named 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 darkness 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 above 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 sad soul 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 has 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 named Lenore -
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named 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!