English poems.doc

Prologue of the Canterbury TalesGeoffrey Chaucer (1340-1400)When April with his showers sweet with fruitThe drought of March has pierced unto the rootAnd bathed each vein with liquor that has powerTo generate therein and sire the flower;When Zephyr also has, with his sweet breath,Quickened again, in every holt and heath,The tender shoots and buds, and the young sunInto the Ram one half his course has run,And many little birds make melodyThat sleep through all the night with open eyeThen do folk long to go on pilgrimage,And palmers to go seeking out strange strands,To distant shrines well known in sundry lands.And specially from every shires endOf England they to Canterbury wend,The holy blessed martyr there to seekWho helped them when they lay so ill and wealBefell that, in that season, on a dayIn Southwark, at the Tabard, as I layReady to start upon my pilgrimageTo Canterbury, full of devout homage,There came at nightfall to that hostelrySome nine and twenty in a companyOf sundry persons who had chanced to fallIn fellowship, and pilgrims were they allThat toward Canterbury town would ride.The rooms and stables spacious were and wide,And well we there were eased, and of the best.And briefly, when the sun had gone to rest,So had I spoken with them, every one,That I was of their fellowship anon,And made agreement that wed early riseTo take the road, as you I will apprise.But none the less, whilst I have time and space,Before yet farther in this tale I pace,It seems to me accordant with reasonTo inform you of the state of every oneOf all of these, as it appeared to me,And who they were, and what was their degree,And even how arrayed there at the inn;And with a knight thus will I first begin.Excerpt from HamletWilliam Shakespeare (1564-1616)To be, or not to be: that is the question,Whether tis nobler in the mind to sufferThe slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,And by opposing end them. To die, to sleep;No more; and by a sleep to say we endThe heartache, and the thousand natural shocksThat flesh is heir to, tis a consummationDevoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep.To sleep, perchance to dream: ay, theres the rub;For in that sleep of death what dreams may comeWhen we have shuffled off this mortal coil,Must give us pause. Theres the respectThat makes calamity of so long life;For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,Th oppressors wrong, the proud mans contumely,The pangs of despised love, the laws delay,The insolence of office, and the spurnsThat patient merit of th unworthy takes,When he himself might his quietus makeWith a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,To grunt and sweat under a weary life,But that the dread of something after death,The undiscovered country from whose bournNo traveller returns, puzzles the will,And makes us rather bear those ills we haveThan fly to others that we know not of?Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,And thus the native hue of resolutionIs sicklied oer with the pale cast of thought,And enterprises of great pith and momentWith this regard their currents turn awryAnd lose the name of actionElegy Written in a Country ChurchyardThomas Gray (1716-1771)THE Curfew tolls the knell of parting day,   The lowing herd wind slowly oer the lea, The plowman homeward plods his weary way,   And leaves the world to darkness and to me.  Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,           And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,   And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;  Save that from yonder ivy-mantled towr   The moping owl does to the moon complain  Of such as, wandring near her secret bowr,   Molest her ancient solitary reign.  Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-trees shade,   Where heaves the turf in many a mouldring heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,    The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep.  The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn,   The swallow twittring from the straw-built shed, The cocks shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,   No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.   For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,   Or busy housewife ply her evening care: No children run to lisp their sires return,   Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.  Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,    Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke: How jocund did they drive their team afield!   How bowd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!  Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,   Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;  Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile   The short and simple annals of the poor.  The boast of heraldry, the pomp of powr,   And all that beauty, all that wealth eer gave, Awaits alike th inevitable hour:    The paths of glory lead but to the grave.  Nor you, ye Proud, impute to These the fault,   If Memory oer their Tomb no Trophies raise, Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault   The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.  Can storied urn or animated bust   Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can Honours voice provoke the silent dust,   Or Flattry soothe the dull cold ear of death?  Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid   Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; Hands, that the rod of empire might have swayd,   Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.  But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page   Rich with the spoils of time did neer unroll;  Chill Penury repressd their noble rage,   And froze the genial current of the soul.  Full many a gem of purest ray serene   The dark unfathomd caves of ocean bear: Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,    And waste its sweetness on the desert air.  Some village Hampden that with dauntless breast   The little tyrant of his fields withstood, Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,   Some Cromwell guiltless of his countrys blood.  Th applause of listning senates to command,   The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty oer a smiling land,   And read their history in a nations eyes,  Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed alone    Their glowing virtues, but their crimes confined; Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,   And shut the gates of mercy on mankind,  The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,   To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,  Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride   With incense kindled at the Muses flame.  Far from the madding crowds ignoble strife,   Their sober wishes never learnd to stray; Along the cool sequesterd vale of life    They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.  Yet evn these bones from insult to protect   Some frail memorial still erected nigh, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deckd,   Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.   Their name, their years, spelt by th unletterd muse,   The place of fame and elegy supply: And many a holy text around she strews,   That teach the rustic moralist to die.  For who, to dumb Forgetfulness a prey,    This pleasing anxious being eer resignd, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,   Nor cast one longing lingring look behind?  On some fond breast the parting soul relies,   Some pious drops the closing eye requires;  Evn from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,   Evn in our Ashes live their wonted Fires.  For thee, who, mindful of th unhonourd dead,   Dost in these lines their artless tale relate; If chance, by lonely contemplation led,    Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,  Haply some hoary-headed Swain may say,   Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn Brushing with hasty steps the dews away   To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.  There at the foot of yonder nodding beech   That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, His listless length at noontide would he stretch,   And pore upon the brook that babbles by.  Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,   Muttring his wayward fancies he would rove, Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn,   Or crazed with care, or crossd in hopeless love.  One morn I missd him on the customd hill,   Along the heath and near his favrite tree; Another came; nor yet beside the rill,   Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;  The next with dirges due in sad array   Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne. Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay   Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn:  THE EPITAPH.Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth   A Youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown. Fair Science frownd not on his humble birth,   And Melancholy markd him for her own. Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,   Heavn did a recompense as largely send: He gave to Misry all he had, a tear,   He gaind from Heavn (twas all he wishd) a friend.  No farther seek his merits to disclose,   Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they alike in trembling hope repose,)   The bosom of his Father and his God.Auld Lang SyneRobert Burns (1759-1796)Should auld acquaintance be forgot,   And never brought to min? Should auld acquaintance be forgot,   And days o lang syne? We twa hae run about the braes,   And pud the gowans fine, But weve wandered mony a weary foot,   Sin auld lang syne. We twa hae paidld i the burn,   Frae mornin sun till dine, But seas between us braid hae roared,   Sin auld lang syne. And surely yell be your pint-stowp,   And surely Ill be mine; And well tak a right gude-willie waught,   For auld lang syne. And theres a hand, my trusty fiere,   And gies a hand o thine; And well tak a cup o kindness yet,   For auld lang syne. For auld lang syne, my dear,   For auld lang syne, And we'll tak a cup o kindness yet,   For auld lang syne. The Solitary ReaperWilliam Wordsworth (1770-1850)Behold her, single in the field,Yon solitary Highland Lass!Reaping and singing by herself;Stop here, or gently pass!Alone she cuts and binds the grain,And sings a melancholy strain;O listen! for the Vale profoundIs overflowing with the sound.No Nightingale did ever chauntMore welcome notes to weary bandsOf travellers in some shady haunt,Among Arabian sands:A voice so thrilling neer was heardIn spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,Breaking the silence of the seasAmong the farthest Hebrides.Will no one tell me what she sings?Perhaps the plaintive numbers flowFor old, unhappy, far-off things,And battles long ago:Or is it some more humble lay,Familiar matter of to-day?Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,That has been, and may be again?Whateer the theme, the Maiden sangAs if her song could have no ending;I saw her singing at her work,And oer the sickle bending;I listened, motionless and still;And, as I mounted up the hill,The music in my heart I bore,Long after it was heard no more.Ode to the West WindPercy Bysshe Shelley (1794-1822)1O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumns beingThou, from whose unseen presence the leaves deadAre driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O thouWho chariotest to their dark wintry bedThe winged seeds, where they lie cold and low,Each like a corpse within its grave, untilThine azure sister of the Spring shall blowHer clarion oer 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!2 Thou on whose stream, mid the steep skys commotion,Loose clouds like earths decaying leaves are shed,Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and Ocean,Angels of rain and lightning: there are spreadOn the blue surface of thine airy surge,Like the bright hair uplifted from the headOf some fierce Maenad, even from the dim vergeOf the horizon to the Zeniths height,The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirgeOf the dying year, to which this closing nightWill be the dome of a vast sepulchre,Vaulted with all thy congregated mightOf vapours, from whose solid atmosphereBlack rain, and fire, and hail will burst: oh, hear!3 Thou who didst waken from his summer dreamsThe blue Mediterranean, where he lay,Lulled by the coil of his crystalline streamsBeside a pumice isle in Baiaes bay,And saw in sleep old palaces and towersQuivering within the waves intenser day,All overgrown with azure moss and flowersSo sweet, the sense faints picturing them! ThouFor whose path the Atlantics level powersCleave themselves into chasms, while far belowThe sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wearThe sapless foliage of the ocean, knowThy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear,And tremble and despoil themselves: oh, hear!4 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 shareThe impulse of thy strength, only less freeThan thou, O uncontrollable! If evenI were as in my boyhood, and could beThe comrade of thy wanderings over Heaven,As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speedScarce seemd a vision; I would neer have strivenAs 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 bowedOne too like thee: tameless, and swift, and proud.5Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is:What if my leaves are falling like its own!The tumult of thy mighty harmoniesWill take from both a deep, autumnal tone,Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce,My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one!Drive my dead thoughts over the universeLike withered leaves to quicken a new birth!And, by the incantation of this verse,Scatter, is from an unextinguished hearthAshes and sparks, my words among mankind!Be through my lips to unawakened earthThe trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind,If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?Ode to a NightingaleJohn Keats (1795-1821)Season of