In what distant deeps or skies And what shoulder, and what art, What the hammer? what the chain? In what furnace was thy brain? What the anvil? what dread grasp When the stars threw down their spears, Did He who made the Lamb, make thee? Tiger! Tiger! burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Dare frame thy fearful symmetry? WHEN I AM DEAD When I am dead, my dearest, Sing no sad songs for me; Plant thou no roses at my head, Nor shady cypress tree: William Blake Be the green grass above me I shall not see the shadows, I shall not hear the nightingale And dreaming through the twilight That doth not rise nor set, Haply I may remember, And haply may forget. - Christina Rossetti REMEMBER Remember me when I am gone away, When you can no more hold me by the hand, Yet if you should forget me for a while UP-HILL Does the road wind up-hill all the way? Will the day's journey take the whole long day? But is there for the night a resting-place? A roof for when the slow, dark hours begin. Shall I meet other wayfarers at night? Those who have gone before. Then must I knock, or call when just in sight? Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak? Will there be beds for me and all who seek? - Christina Rossetti WESTWARD ON THE HIGH-HILLED PLAINS FROM A Shropshire Lad Westward on the high-hilled plains Where for me the world began, Still, I think, in newer veins Frets the changeless blood of man. Now that other lads than I Strip to bathe on Severn shore, Tread the mill I trod before. There, when hueless is the west Stands the troubled dream beside. There, on thoughts that once were mine, JEAN -A. E. Housman Of a' the airts the wind can blaw I dearly like the West, For there the bonie lassie lives, The lassie I lo'e best: There wild woods grow, and rivers row, And mony a hill between; But day and night my fancy's flight I see her in the dewy flowers, O blaw ye westlin' winds, blaw saft Wi' balmy gale, frae hill and dale Bring hame the laden bees; And bring the lassie back to me That's aye sae neat and clean; Ae smile o' her wad banish care, Sae charming is my Jean. What sighs and vows amang the knowes How fond to meet, how wae to part That night she gaed awa! The Powers aboon can only ken. That nane can be sae dear to me As my sweet lovely Jean! - Robert Burns JOHN ANDERSON MY JO John Anderson my jo, John, But now your brow is beld, John, John Anderson my jo, John, |