Seven Ages Of Man
by William Shakespeare

All the world’s a stage,

And all the men and women merely players,

They have their exits and entrances,

And one man in his time plays many parts,

His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,

Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms.

Then, the whining schoolboy with his satchel

And shining morning face, creeping like snail

Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,

Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad

Made to his mistress’ eyebrow. Then a soldier,

Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,

Jealous in honour, sudden, and quick in quarrel,

Seeking the bubble reputation

Even in the cannon’s mouth. And then the justice

In fair round belly, with good capon lin’d,

With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut,

Full of wise saws, and modern instances,

And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts

Into the lean and slipper’d pantaloon,

With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side,

His youthful hose well sav’d, a world too wide,

For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,

Turning again towards childish treble, pipes

And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,

That ends this strange eventful history,

Is second childishness and mere oblivion,

Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

There is another sky
by Emily Dickinson

There is another sky,

Ever serene and fair,

And there is another sunshine,

Though it be darkness there;

Never mind faded forests, Austin,

Never mind silent fields –

Here is a little forest,

Whose leaf is ever green;

Here is a brighter garden,

Where not a frost has been;

In its unfading flowers

I hear the bright bee hum:

Prithee, my brother,

Into my garden come!

My Love Reveals Objects
by Isabel Fraire

My love reveals objects

silken butterflies

concealed in his fingers

his words

splash me with stars

night shines like lightning

under the fingers of my love

My love invents worlds where

jeweled glittering serpents live

worlds where music is the world

worlds where houses with open eyes

contemplate the dawn

My love is a mad sunflower that forgets

fragments of sun in the silence

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 the 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 posies,

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 th purest gold;

A belt of straw and ivy buds,

With coral clasps and amber studs:

And if these pleasures may thee move,

Come live with me and be my love.

The shepherds’ 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.

Love Is Enough
by William Morris

Love is enough: though the world be a-waning,

And the woods have no voice but the voice of complaining,

Though the skies be too dark for dim eyes to discover

The gold-cups and daisies fair blooming thereunder,

Though the hills be held shadows, and the sea a dark wonder,

And this day draw a veil over all deeds passed over,

Yet their hands shall not tremble, their feet shall not falter:

The void shall not weary, the fear shall not alter

These lips and these eyes of the loved and the lover.

The Charge of the Light Brigade
by Lord Alfred Tennyson

Half a league, half a league,

Half a league onward,

All in the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred.

“Forward, the Light Brigade!

Charge for the guns!” he said:

Into the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred.

“Forward, the Light Brigade!”

Was there a man dismayed?

Not though the soldier knew

Some one had blundered:

Their’s not to make reply,

Their’s not to reason why,

Their’s but to do and die:

Into the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,

Cannon to left of them,

Cannon in front of them

Volleyed and thundered;

Stormed at with shot and shell,

Boldly they rode and well,

Into the jaws of Death,

Into the mouth of Hell

Rode the six hundred.

Flashed all their sabres bare,

Flashed as they turned in air

Sabring the gunners there,

Charging an army, while

All the world wondered:

Plunged in the battery-smoke

Right through the line they broke;

Cossack and Russian

Reeled from the sabre-stroke

Shattered and sundered.

Then they rode back, but not,

Not the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,

Cannon to left of them,

Cannon behind them

Volleyed and thundered;

Stormed at with shot and shell,

While horse and hero fell,

They that had fought so well

Came through the jaws of Death

Back from the mouth of Hell,

All that was left of them,

Left of six hundred.

When can their glory fade?

O the wild charge they made!

All the world wondered.

Honour the charge they made!

Honour the Light Brigade,

Noble six hundred!

Love and a Question
by Robert Frost

A stranger came to the door at eve,

And he spoke the bridegroom fair.

He bore a green-white stick in his hand,

And, for all burden, care.

He asked with the eyes more than the lips

For a shelter for the night,

And he turned and looked at the road afar

Without a window light.

The bridegroom came forth into the porch

With, ‘Let us look at the sky,

And question what of the night to be,

Stranger, you and I.’

The woodbine leaves littered the yard,

The woodbine berries were blue,

Autumn, yes, winter was in the wind;

‘Stranger, I wish I knew.’

Within, the bride in the dusk alone

Bent over the open fire,

Her face rose-red with the glowing coal

And the thought of the heart’s desire.

The bridegroom looked at the weary road,

Yet saw but her within,

And wished her heart in a case of gold

And pinned with a silver pin.

The bridegroom thought it little to give

A dole of bread, a purse,

A heartfelt prayer for the poor of God,

Or for the rich a curse;

But whether or not a man was asked

To mar the love of two

By harboring woe in the bridal house,

The bridegroom wished he knew.

The New Poetry Handbook
by Mark Strand

1 If a man understands a poem,

he shall have troubles.

2 If a man lives with a poem,

he shall die lonely.

3 If a man lives with two poems,

he shall be unfaithful to one.

4 If a man conceives of a poem,

he shall have one less child.

5 If a man conceives of two poems,

he shall have two children less.

6 If a man wears a crown on his head as he writes,

he shall be found out.

7 If a man wears no crown on his head as he writes,

he shall deceive no one but himself.

8 If a man gets angry at a poem,

he shall be scorned by men.

9 If a man continues to be angry at a poem,

he shall be scorned by women.

10 If a man publicly denounces poetry,

his shoes will fill with urine.

11 If a man gives up poetry for power,

he shall have lots of power.

12 If a man brags about his poems,

he shall be loved by fools.

13 If a man brags about his poems and loves fools,

he shall write no more.

14 If a man craves attention because of his poems,

he shall be like a jackass in moonlight.

15 If a man writes a poem and praises the poem of a fellow,

he shall have a beautiful mistress.

16 If a man writes a poem and praises the poem of a fellow overly,

he shall drive his mistress away.

17 If a man claims the poem of another,

his heart shall double in size.

18 If a man lets his poems go naked,

he shall fear death.

19 If a man fears death,

he shall be saved by his poems.

20 If a man does not fear death,

he may or may not be saved by his poems.

21 If a man finishes a poem,

he shall bathe in the blank wake of his passion

and be kissed by white paper.