THE RAVEN

By Edgar Allen Poe

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 cham-
ber door.
"`Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my cham-
ber door--
Only this and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak De-
cember,
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 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 I heard again 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 an instant
stopped or stayed he;
But, with mein 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 Plu-
tonian 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 a name as "Nevermore."

But the Raven, sitting lonely on that 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 the 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 ex-
pressing
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 en-
chanted--
On this home by Horror haunted--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 no 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!

DO NOT GO GENTLE INTO THAT GOOD NIGHT

By Dylan Thomas

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

CROW'S FALL

By Ted Hughes

When Crow was white he decided that the sun was too white.
He decided it glared much too whitely.
He decided to attack it and defeat it.

He got his strength and in full glitter.
He clawed and fluffed his rage up.
He aimed his beak direct at the sun's centre.

He laughed himself to the centre of himself

And attacked.

At his battle cry trees grew suddenly old,
Shadows flattened.

But the sun brightened--
It brightened, and Crow returned charred black.

He opened his mouth, but what came out was charred black.

"Up there", he managed,
"Where white is black and black is white, I won."

ALONE

By Edgar Allen Poe

From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were--I have not seen
As others saw--I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow--I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone--
And all I loved, I loved alone.
Then--in my childhood--in the dawn
Of a most stormy life--was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still--
From the torrent, or the fountain--
From the red cliff of the mountain--
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold--
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by--
From the thunder and the storm--
And the cloud that took the form
(when the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.

IN FLANDER'S FIELDS

By John McCrea

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

DEATH

By W.B. Yeats

Nor dread nor hope attend
A dying animal;
A man awaits his end
Dreading and hoping all;
Many times he died,
Many times rose again.
A great man in his pride
Confronting murderous men
Casts derision upon
Supersession of breath;
He knows death to the bone--
Man has created death.

HIGH FLIGHT

By John Magee

Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds - and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of - wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there,
I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air.
Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue
I've topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace
Where never lark, or even eagle flew.
And while with silent, lifting mind I've trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand and touched the face of God.

THE CITY IN THE SEA

By Edgar Allen Poe

Lo! Death has reared himself a throne
In a strange city lying alone
Far down within the dim West,
Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best
Have gone to their eternal rest.
There shrines and palaces and towers
(Time-eaten towers that tremble not!)
Resemble nothing that is ours.
Around, by lifting winds forgot,
Resignedly beneath the sky
The melancholy waters lie.

No rays from the holy Heaven come down
On the long night-time of that town;
But light from out the lurid sea
Streams up the turrets silently--
Gleams up the pinnacles far and free--
Up domes--up spires--up kingly halls--
Up fanes--up Babylon-like walls--
Up shadowy long-forgotten bowers
Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers--
Up many and many a marvellous shrine,
Whose wreathed friezes intertwine
The viol, the violet, and the vine.

Resignedly beneath the sky
The melancholy waters lie.
So blend the turrets and shadows there
That all seem pendulous in air,
While from a proud tower in the town
Death looks gigantically down.

There open fanes and gaping graves
Yawn level with the luminous waves;
But not the riches there that lie
In each idol's diamond eye--
Not the gally-jewelled dead
Tempt the waters from their bed;
For no ripples curl, alas!
Along that wilderness of glass--
So swellings tell that winds may be
Upon some far-off happier sea--
No heavings hint that winds have been
On seas less hideously serene.

But lo, a stir in the air!
The wave--there is a movement there!
As if the towers had thrust aside,
In slightly sinking, the dull tide--
As if their tops had feebly given
A void within the filmy Heaven.
The waves have now a redder glow--
The hours are breathing faint and low--
And when, amid no eartly moans,
Down, down that town shall settle hence,
Hell, rising from a thousand thrones
Shall do it reverence.

DEATH THE LEVELLER

By James Shirley

The glories of our blood and state
Are shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armour against Fate;
Death lays his icy hand on kings:
Sceptre and Crown
Must tumble down,
And in the dust be equal made
With the poor crooked scythe and spade.

Some men with swords may reap the field,
And plant fresh laurels where they kill:
But their strong nerves at last must yield;
They tame but one another still:
Early or late
They stoop to fate,
And must give up their murmuring breath
When they, pale captives, creep to death.

The garlands wither on your brow;
Then boast no more your mighty deeds!
Upon Death's purple altar now
See where the victor-victim bleeds.
Your heads must come
To the cold tomb:
Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet and blossom in their dust.

THE BLACK BEAST

By Ted Hughes

Where is the Black Beast?
Crow, like an owl, swivelled his head.
Where is the Black Beast?
Crow hid in its bed, to ambush it.
Where is the Black Beast?
Crow sat in its chair, telling loud lies against the Black Beast.
Where is it?
Crow shouted after midnight, pounding the wall with a last.
Where is the Black Beast?
Crow crucified a frog under a microscope, he peered into the brain of a dogfish.
Where is the Black Beast?
Crow killed his brother and turned him inside out to stare at his colour.
Where is the Black Beast?
Crow roasted the earth to a clinker, he charged into space--
Where is the Black Beast?
The silences of space decamped, space flitted in every direction--
Where is the Black Beast?
Crow flailed immensely through the vaccuum, he screeched after the
disappearing stars--
Where is it? Where is the Black Beast?

AND DEATH SHALL HAVE NO DOMINION

By Dylan Thomas

And death shall have no dominion.
Dead men naked they shall be one
With the man in the wind and the west moon;
When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,
They shall have stars at elbow and foot;
Though they go mad they shall be sane,
Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;
Though lovers be lost love shall not;
And death shall have no dominion.

And death shall have no dominion.
Under the windings of the sea
They lying long shall not die windily;
Twisting on racks when sinews give way,
Strapped to a wheel, yet they shall not break;
Faith in their hands shall snap in two,
And the unicorn evils run them through;
Split all ends up they shan't crack;
And death shall have no dominion.

And death shall have no dominion.
No more may gulls cry at their ears
Or waves break loud on the seashores;
Where blew a flower may a flower no more
Lift its head to the blows of the rain;
Though they be mad and dead as nails,
Heads of the characters hammer through daisies;
Break in the sun till the sun breaks down,
And death shall have no dominion.

THE CONQUEROR WORM

By Edgar Allen Poe

Lo! `tis a gala night
Within the lonesome latter years!
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
In veils, and drowned in tears,
Sit in a theatre, to see
A play of hopes and fears,
While the orchestra breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres.

Mimes, in the form of God on high,
Mutter and mumble low,
And hither and thither fly--
Mere puppets they, who come and go
At bidding of vast formless things
That shift the scenery to and fro,
Flapping from out their Condor wings
Invisible Woe!

That motley drama--oh, be sure
It shall not be forgot!
With its Phantom chased for evermore,
By a crowd that seize it not,
Through a circle that ever returneth in
To the self-same spot,
And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
And Horror the soul of the plot.

But see, amid the mimic rout
A crawling shape intrude!
A blood-red thing that writhes from out
The scenic solitude!
It writhes!--it writhes!--with mortal pangs
The mimes become its food
And the angels sob at vermin fangs
In human gore imbued.

Out-out are the lights-out all!
And, over each quivering form,
The curtain, a funeral pall,
Comes down with the rush of a storm,
And the angels, all pallid and wan,
Uprising, unveiling, affirm
That the play is the tragedy, "Man"
And its hero the Conqueror Worm.