PSALM 23 By King David
Come live with me, and be my love.
The LORD is my shepherd; I shall not want.
He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me
beside the still waters.
He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of
righteousness for his name's sake.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff
they comfort me.
Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine
enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth
over.
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my
life: and I will dwell in the house of the LORD forever.
THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE  By Christopher Marlowe
 
Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That valleys, groves, hills, and fields,
Woods, or steepy mountain yields.
 And we will sit upon rocks,
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow rivers to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.
 
And I will make thee beds of roses
And a thousand fragrant poises,
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle;
A gown made of the finest wool
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;
A belt of straw and ivy buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs;
And if these pleasures may thee move,
 
The shepherds's swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me and be my love.
THE NYMPH’S REPLY TO THE SHEPHERD By Sir Walter Raleigh
 If all the world and love were young,
And truth in every shepherd's tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move
To live with thee and be thy love.
Time drives the flocks from field to fold
When rivers rage and rocks grow cold,
And Philomel becometh dumb;
The rest complains of cares to come.
The flowers do fade, and wanton fields
To wayward winter reckoning yields;
A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall.
Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten
In folly ripe, in season rotten.
Thy belt of straw and ivy buds,
Thy coral clasps and amber studs,
All these in me no means can move
To come to thee and be thy love.
But could youth last and love still breed,
Had joys no date nor age no need,
Then these delights my mind might move
To live with thee and be thy love.
THE LISTENERS By Walter de la Mare
'Is there anybody there?' said the Traveller,
Knocking on the moonlit door;
And his horse in the silence champ'd the grasses
Of the forest's ferny floor:
And a bird flew up out of the turret,
Above the Traveller's head:
And he smote upon the door again a second time;
'Is there anybody there?' he said.
But no one descended to the Traveller;
No head from the leaf-fringed sill
Lean'd over and look'd into his grey eyes,
Where he stood perplex'd and still.
But only a host of phantom listeners
That dwelt in the lone house then
Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight
To that voice from the world of men:
Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair,
That goes down to the empty hall,
Hearkening in an air stirr'd and shaken
By the lonely Traveller's call.
And he felt in his heart their strangeness,
Their stillness answering his cry,
While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf,
'Neath the starr'd and leafy sky;
For he suddenly smote on the door, even
Louder, and lifted his head:--
'Tell them I came, and no one answer'd,
That I kept my word,' he said.
Never the least stir made the listeners,
Though every word he spake
Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house
From the one man left awake:
Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup,
And the sound of iron on stone,
And how the silence surged softly backward,
When the plunging hoofs were gone.
 
FABLE By Ralph Waldo Emerson
 
The mountain and the squirrel
Had a quarrel;
And the former called the latter "Little Prig."
Bun replied,
"You are doubtless very big;
But all sorts of things and weather
Must be taken in together
To make up a year
And a sphere.
And I think it's no disgrace
To occupy my place.
If I'm not so large as you,
You are not so small as I,
And not half so spry.
I'll not deny you make
A very pretty squirrel track;
Talents differ: all is well and wisely put;
If I cannot carry forests on my back,
Neither can you crack a nut."
STOPPING BY THE WOODS ON A SNOWY EVENING By Robert Frost
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
 The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
I’M NOBODY! WHO ARE YOU? By Emily Dickinson
I'm nobody! Who are you?
Are you nobody, too?
Then there's a pair of us -don't tell!
They'd banish us, you know.
How dreary to be somebody!
How public, like a frog
To tell your name the livelong day
To an admiring bog!
 I would be the pink and silver as I ran along the paths,
PATTERNS By Amy Lowell And he would stumble after,
  Bewildered by my laughter.
I walk down the garden paths, I should see the sun flashing from his sword-hilt and the
And all the daffodils buckles
Are blowing, and the bright blue squills. on his shoes.
I walk down the patterned garden-paths I would choose
In my stiff, brocaded gown. To lead him in a maze along the patterned paths,
With my powdered hair and jewelled fan, A bright and laughing maze for my heavy-booted lover,
I too am a rare Till he caught me in the shade,
Pattern.As I wander down And the buttons of his waistcoat bruised my body as he
The garden paths. clasped me,
My dress is richly figured, Aching, melting, unafraid.
And the train With the shadows of the leaves and the sundrops,
Makes a pink and silver stain And the plopping of the waterdrops,
On the gravel, and the thrift All about us in the open afternoon --
Of the borders. I am very like to swoon
Just a plate of current fashion, With the weight of this brocade,
Tripping by in high-heeled, ribboned shoes. For the sun sifts through the shade.
Not a softness anywhere about me, Underneath the fallen blossom
Only whalebone and brocade. In my bosom,
And I sink on a seat in the shade Is a letter I have hid.
Of a lime tree.For my passion It was brought to me this morning by a rider from the Duke.
Wars against the stiff brocade. "Madam, we regret to inform you that Lord Hartwell
The daffodils and squills Died in action Thursday se'nnight."
Flutter in the breeze As I read it in the white, morning sunlight,
As they please. The letters squirmed like snakes.
And I weep; "Any answer, Madam," said my footman.
For the lime-tree is in blossom "No," I told him.
And one small flower has dropped upon my bosom. "See that the messenger takes some refreshment.
And the plashing of waterdrops No, no answer."
In the marble fountain And I walked into the garden,
Comes down the garden-paths. Up and down the patterned paths,
The dripping never stops. In my stiff, correct brocade.
Underneath my stiffened gown The blue and yellow flowers stood up proudly in the sun,
Is the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin, Each one.
A basin in the midst of hedges grown I stood upright too,
So thick, she cannot see her lover hiding, Held rigid to the pattern
But she guesses he is near, By the stiffness of my gown.
And the sliding of the water  
Seems the stroking of a dear Up and down I walked,
Hand upon her. Up and down.
What is Summer in a fine brocaded gown! In a month he would have been my husband.
I should like to see it lying in a heap upon the ground. In a month, here, underneath this lime,
All the pink and silver crumpled up on the ground. We would have broke the pattern;
He for me, and I for him,  TREES By Joyce Kilmer
He as Colonel, I as Lady,  
On this shady seat. I think that I shall never see
He had a whim A poem as lovely as a tree.
That sunlight carried blessing. A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
And I answered, "It shall be as you have said." Against the earth's sweet flowing breast;
Now he is dead.  
In Summer and in Winter I shall walk A tree that looks at God all day,
Up and down And lifts her leafy arms to pray;
The patterned garden-paths A tree that may in Summer wear
In my stiff, brocaded gown. A nest of robins in her hair;
The squills and daffodils  
Will give place to pillared roses, and to asters, and to snow. Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
I shall go Who intimately lives with rain.
Up and down, Poems are made by fools like me,
In my gown. But only God can make a tree.
Gorgeously arrayed,
Boned and stayed.
And the softness of my body will be guarded from embrace
By each button, hook, and lace.
For the man who should loose me is dead,
Fighting with the Duke in Flanders,
In a pattern called a war.
Christ! What are patterns for? BLOWIN’ IN THE WIND By Bob Dylan

How many roads must a man walk down

TO CELIA BY: Ben Jonson Before you call him a man?
DRINK to me only with thine eyes, How many seas must a white dove sail
And I will pledge with mine; Before she sleeps in the sand?
Or leave a kiss but in the cup Yes, 'n' how many times must the cannon balls fly
And I'll not look for wine. Before they're forever banned?
The thirst that from the soul doth rise The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind,
Doth ask a drink divine; The answer is blowin' in the wind.
But might I of Jove's nectar sup, Yes, 'n' how many years can a mountain exist
I would not change for thine. Before it's washed to the sea?
Yes, 'n' how many years can some people exist
I sent thee late a rosy wreath, Before they're allowed to be free?
Not so much honouring thee Yes, 'n' how many times can a man turn his head,
As giving it a hope that there And pretend that he just doesn't see?
It could not wither'd be; The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind,
But thou thereon didst only breathe, The answer is blowin' in the wind.
And sent'st it back to me; Yes, 'n' how many times must a man look up
Since when it grows, and smells, I swear, Before he can see the sky?
Not of itself but thee! Yes, 'n' how many ears must one man have
Before he can hear people cry?
Yes, 'n' how many deaths will it take till he knows
That too many people have died?
The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind,
The answer is blowin' in the wind.
SONNET 29 By William Shakespeare
When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state,
And trouble deaf Heaven with my bootless cries,
And look upon myself, and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featur'd like him, like him with friends possess'd,
Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least:
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee,--and then my state
(Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth) sings hymns at heaven's gate;
For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings'.
ON HIS BLINDNESS By John Milton
 
When I consider how my light is spent
Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide
Lodg'd with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest he returning chide,
"Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?"
I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies: "God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts: who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state
Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed
And post o'er land and ocean without rest:
They also serve who only stand and wait."
BREAK BREAK BREAK By Alfred Lord Tennyson
 
Break, break, break,
On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!
And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me.
O, well for the fisherman's boy,
That he shouts with his sister at play!
O, well for the sailor lad,
That he sings in his boat on the bay!
And the stately ships go on
To their haven under the hill;
But O for the touch of a vanished hand,
And the sound of a voice that is still!
Break, break, break,
At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!
But the tender grace of a day that is dead
Will never come back to me.
ODE TO THE WEST WIND By Percy Bysshe Shelley
 
O WILD West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being,
Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead
Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,
 
Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,
Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O thou,
Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed
The wingèd seeds, where they lie cold and low,
Each like a corpse within its grave, until
Thine azure sister of the spring shall blow
 
Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill
(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)
With living hues and odors plain and hill:
 
Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere;
Destroyer and preserver; hear, oh, hear!
II.
Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commotion,
Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed,
Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and Ocean,
 
Angels of rain and lightning: there are spread
On the blue surface of thine airy surge, The tumult of thy mighty harmonies
Like the bright hair uplifted from the head Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone,
Of some fierce Mænad, even from the dim verge Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce,
Of the horizon to the zenith's height, My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one!
The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge Drive my dead thoughts over the universe
 Of the dying year, to which this closing night Like withered leaves to quicken a new birth!
Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre, And, by the incantation of this verse,
Vaulted with all thy congregated might Scatter, as from an extinguished hearth
Of vapors, from whose solid atmosphere Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!
Black rain, and fire, and hail, will burst: oh hear! Be through my lips to unwakened earth
  The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind,
III. If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?
 Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams
The blue Mediterranean, where he lay,
Lulled by the coil of his crystalline streams,
Beside a pumice isle in Baiæ's bay,
And saw in sleep old palaces and towers
Quivering within the wave's intenser day,
All overgrown with azure moss and flowers
So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou
For whose path the Atlantic's level powers
Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below
The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear
The sapless foliage of the ocean, know
Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear,
And tremble and despoil themselves: oh, hear!
IV.
If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;
If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;
A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share
 
The impulse of thy strength, only less free
Than thou, O uncontrollable! if even
I were as in my boyhood, and could be
 The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven,
As then, when to outstrip thy skyey speed
Scarce seemed a vision; I would ne'er have striven
 As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.
Oh! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!
I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!
A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed
One too like thee: tameless, and swift, and proud.
V.
 Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is;
What if my leaves are falling like its own!