Alone

Edgar Allan Poe, 1809 1849

From childhoods 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 lovd--I lovd alone-Then--in my childhood--in the dawn
Of a most stormy life--was drawn
From evry 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 rolld
In its autumn tint of gold-From the lightning in the sky
As it passd 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
She Walks in Beauty
BY LORD BYRON (GEORGE GORDON)
She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all thats best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes;
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens oer her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express,
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
And on that cheek, and oer that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,

But tell of days in goodness spent,

A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!

Ode to Autumn
John Keats
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatcheaves run;
To bend with apples the mossed cottagetrees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel
shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimmed their
clammy cell.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where

are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music
too,--While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying
day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir, the small gnats
mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly
bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble
soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft,
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
The Road Not Taken
Robert Frost
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, 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,
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? Though as for that the passing there
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find Had worn them really about the same,
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; And both that morning equally lay
Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep,
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while
Oh, I marked the first for another day!
thy hook
Yet knowing how way leads on to way
Spares the next swath and all its twined
I doubted if I should ever come back.
flowers;
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost
I shall be telling this with a sigh
keep
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,
Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
I took the one less traveled by,
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by
And that has made all the difference.
hours.