Mending Wall
by Robert Frost

Something there is that doesn’t love a wall,

That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,

And spills the upper boulders in the sun;

And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.

The work of hunters is another thing:

I have come after them and made repair

Where they have left not one stone on a stone,

But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,

To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,

No one has seen them made or heard them made,

But at spring mending-time we find them there.

I let my neighbor know beyond the hill;

And on a day we meet to walk the line

And set the wall between us once again.

We keep the wall between us as we go.

To each the boulders that have fallen to each.

And some are loaves and some so nearly balls

We have to use a spell to make them balance:

‘Stay where you are until our backs are turned!’

We wear our fingers rough with handling them.

Oh, just another kind of outdoor game,

One on a side. It comes to little more:

There where it is we do not need the wall:

He is all pine and I am apple orchard.

My apple trees will never get across

And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.

He only says, ‘Good fences make good neighbors.’

Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder

If I could put a notion in his head:

‘Why do they make good neighbors? Isn’t it

Where there are cows? But here there are no cows.

Before I built a wall I’d ask to know

What I was walling in or walling out,

And to whom I was like to give offense.

Something there is that doesn’t love a wall,

That wants it down.’ I could say ‘Elves’ to him,

But it’s not elves exactly, and I’d rather

He said it for himself. I see him there

Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top

In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.

He moves in darkness as it seems to me,

Not of woods only and the shade of trees.

He will not go behind his father’s saying,

And he likes having thought of it so well

He says again, ‘Good fences make good neighbors.’

The Morse Code of the Heart
by Diane Ackerman

Poems arrive as meteorites.

Collecting them, I try my best to impart

impulses, the Morse code of the heart,

but I do not understand the vernacular

of fear that jostles me until art occurs,

or why knowing you from afar

spurs hours of working myself into the stars.

Well, I do know, but I fight its common sense:

I try to stabilize us through eloquence.

It’s an old story, better told than I tell,

how artists shape what hurts like hell

(usually love) into separate empires

of lust, tenderness, and lesser desires

To You
by Walt Whitman

LET us twain walk aside from the rest;

Now we are together privately, do you discard ceremony,

Come! vouchsafe to me what has yet been vouchsafed to none—Tell me the whole story,

Tell me what you would not tell your brother, wife, husband, or physician.

The Fairy Temple; Or, Oberon’s Chapel
by Robert Herrick

RARE TEMPLES THOU HAST SEEN, I KNOW,

AND RICH FOR IN AND OUTWARD SHOW;

SURVEY THIS CHAPEL BUILT, ALONE,

WITHOUT OR LIME, OR WOOD, OR STONE.

THEN SAY, IF ONE THOU’ST SEEN MORE FINE

THAN THIS, THE FAIRIES’ ONCE, NOW THINE.

THE TEMPLE

A way enchaced with glass and beads

There is, that to the Chapel leads;

Whose structure, for his holy rest,

Is here the Halcyon’s curious nest;

Into the which who looks, shall see

His Temple of Idolatry;

Where he of god-heads has such store,

As Rome’s Pantheon had not more.

His house of Rimmon this he calls,

Girt with small bones, instead of walls.

First in a niche, more black than jet,

His idol-cricket there is set;

Then in a polish’d oval by

There stands his idol-beetle-fly;

Next, in an arch, akin to this,

His idol-canker seated is.

Then in a round, is placed by these

His golden god, Cantharides.

So that where’er ye look, ye see

No capital, no cornice free,

Or frieze, from this fine frippery.

Now this the Fairies would have known,

Theirs is a mixt religion:

And some have heard the elves it call

Part Pagan, part Papistical.

If unto me all tongues were granted,

I could not speak the saints here painted.

Saint Tit, Saint Nit, Saint Is, Saint Itis,

Who ‘gainst Mab’s state placed here right is.

Saint Will o’ th’ Wisp, of no great bigness,

But, alias, call’d here FATUUS IGNIS.

Saint Frip, Saint Trip, Saint Fill, Saint Filly;–

Neither those other saint-ships will I

Here go about for to recite

Their number, almost infinite;

Which, one by one, here set down are

In this most curious calendar.

First, at the entrance of the gate,

A little puppet-priest doth wait,

Who squeaks to all the comers there,

‘Favour your tongues, who enter here.

‘Pure hands bring hither, without stain.’

A second pules, ‘Hence, hence, profane!’

Hard by, i’ th’ shell of half a nut,

The holy-water there is put;

A little brush of squirrels’ hairs,

Composed of odd, not even pairs,

Stands in the platter, or close by,

To purge the fairy family.

Near to the altar stands the priest,

There offering up the holy-grist;

Ducking in mood and perfect tense,

With (much good do’t him) reverence.

The altar is not here four-square,

Nor in a form triangular;

Nor made of glass, or wood, or stone,

But of a little transverse bone;

Which boys and bruckel’d children call

(Playing for points and pins) cockall.

Whose linen-drapery is a thin,

Sub|ile, and ductile codling’s skin;

Which o’er the board is smoothly spread

With little seal-work damasked.

The fringe that circumbinds it, too,

Is spangle-work of trembling dew,

Which, gently gleaming, makes a show,

Like frost-work glitt’ring on the snow.

Upon this fetuous board doth stand

Something for shew-bread, and at hand

(Just in the middle of the altar)

Upon an end, the Fairy-psalter,

Graced with the trout-flies’ curious wings,

Which serve for watchet ribbonings.

Now, we must know, the elves are led

Right by the Rubric, which they read:

And if report of them be true,

They have their text for what they do;

Ay, and their book of canons too.

And, as Sir Thomas Parson tells,

They have their book of articles;

And if that Fairy knight not lies

They have their book of homilies;

And other Scriptures, that design

A short, but righteous discipline.

The bason stands the board upon

To take the free-oblation;

A little pin-dust, which they hold

More precious than we prize our gold;

Which charity they give to many

Poor of the parish, if there’s any.

Upon the ends of these neat rails,

Hatch’d with the silver-light of snails,

The elves, in formal manner, fix

Two pure and holy candlesticks,

In either which a tall small bent

Burns for the altar’s ornament.

For sanctity, they have, to these,

Their curious copes and surplices

Of cleanest cobweb, hanging by

In their religious vestery.

They have their ash-pans and their brooms,

To purge the chapel and the rooms;

Their many mumbling mass-priests here,

And many a dapper chorister.

Their ush’ring vergers here likewise,

Their canons and their chaunteries;

Of cloister-monks they have enow,

Ay, and their abbey-lubbers too:–

And if their legend do not lie,

They much affect the papacy;

And since the last is dead, there’s hope

Elve Boniface shall next be Pope.

They have their cups and chalices,

Their pardons and indulgences,

Their beads of nits, bells, books, and wax-

Candles, forsooth, and other knacks;

Their holy oil, their fasting-spittle,

Their sacred salt here, not a little.

Dry chips, old shoes, rags, grease, and bones,

Beside their fumigations.

Many a trifle, too, and trinket,

And for what use, scarce man would think it.

Next then, upon the chanter’s side

An apple’s-core is hung up dried,

With rattling kernels, which is rung

To call to morn and even-song.

The saint, to which the most he prays

And offers incense nights and days,

The lady of the lobster is,

Whose foot-pace he doth stroke and kiss,

And, humbly, chives of saffron brings

For his most cheerful offerings.

When, after these, he’s paid his vows,

He lowly to the altar bows;

And then he dons the silk-worm’s shed,

Like a Turk’s turban on his head,

And reverently departeth thence,

Hid in a cloud of frankincense;

And by the glow-worm’s light well guided,

Goes to the Feast that’s now provided.

Sonnet 13 – And wilt thou have me fashion into speech
by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

And wilt thou have me fashion into speech

The love I bear thee, finding words enough,

And hold the torch out, while the winds are rough,

Between our faces, to cast light on each?—

I drop it at thy feet. I cannot teach

My hand to hold my spirit so far off

From myself—me—that I should bring thee proof

In words, of love hid in me out of reach.

Nay, let the silence of my womanhood

Commend my woman-love to thy belief,—

Seeing that I stand unwon, however wooed,

And rend the garment of my life, in brief,

By a most dauntless, voiceless fortitude,

Lest one touch of this heart convey its grief

Love Song for Alex
by Margaret Walker

The Raven
by Edgar Allan 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 chamber door.

“‘Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door

Only this, and nothing more.”

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,

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 mortals ever dared to dream before;

But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness 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 again I heard 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 a minute stopped or stayed he;

But, with mien 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 Plutonian 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 blest with seeing bird above his chamber door

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,

With such name as “Nevermore.”

But the raven, sitting lonely on the 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 that melancholy burden bore

Of ‘Never – nevermore’.”

But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy 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 expressing

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 lamplight gloated o’er,

But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o’er,

She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer

Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls 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 enchanted

On this home by horror haunted – tell me truly, I implore

Is there – is there balm in Gilead? – 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 in 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 my 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 lamplight 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!