Posted on 01/15/2002 8:59:57 AM PST by StoneColdGOP
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 named 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 heart 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 mortal ever dared to dream to dream before
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness 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 an instant 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,
Thouhg its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door -
Bird or beast above 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 will he 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 sad soul 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, 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 violet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamo-light gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by angels whose faint foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
`Wretch,' I cried, `thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee
Respite - respite and nepenthe from tha 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 named Lenore -
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'
`Be that word our sign of 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 tha 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 lamp-light 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!
My loss.
Excellent literature , but pray tell me, what is the purpose of this ? No offense but am I missing something ?:):)
Go Steelers!
Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question . . .
Oh, do not ask, 'What is it?'
Let us go and make our visit.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes,
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, 'Do I dare?' and, 'Do I dare?'
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair--
(They will say: 'How his hair is growing thin!')
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin--
(They will say: 'But how his arms and legs are thin!')
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
For I have known them all already, known them all--
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?
And I have known the eyes already, known them all--
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?
And I have known the arms already, known them all--
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
(But in the moonlight, downed with light brown hair!)
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
. . . . .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? . . .
I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
. . . . .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep . . . tired . . . or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon
a platter,
I am no prophet--and here's no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And, in short, I was afraid.
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it towards some overwhelming question,
To say: 'I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all'--
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: 'That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.'
And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail
along the floor--
And this, and so much more?--
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a
screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
'That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.'
. . . . .
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous--
Almost, at times, the Fool.
I grow old . . . I grow old . . .
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
BTW: "tha" => "thy" in two places
Tony the Tiger
Tiger, Tiger, burning bright,
Like the Kellogg's mascot might
If made devoid of teeth and claw
And doused with petrochemicals.
Auguries of Innocence
TO see a world in a grain of sand, | |
And a heaven in a wild flower, | |
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand, | |
And eternity in an hour. | |
A robin redbreast in a cage | 5 |
Puts all heaven in a rage. | |
A dove-house filld with doves and pigeons | |
Shudders hell thro all its regions. | |
A dog starvd at his masters gate | |
Predicts the ruin of the state. | 10 |
A horse misused upon the road | |
Calls to heaven for human blood. | |
Each outcry of the hunted hare | |
A fibre from the brain does tear. | |
A skylark wounded in the wing, | 15 |
A cherubim does cease to sing. | |
The game-cock clipt and armd for fight | |
Does the rising sun affright. | |
Every wolfs and lions howl | |
Raises from hell a human soul. | 20 |
The wild deer, wandring here and there, | |
Keeps the human soul from care. | |
The lamb misusd breeds public strife, | |
And yet forgives the butchers knife. | |
The bat that flits at close of eve | 25 |
Has left the brain that wont believe. | |
The owl that calls upon the night | |
Speaks the unbelievers fright. | |
He who shall hurt the little wren | |
Shall never be belovd by men. | 30 |
He who the ox to wrath has movd | |
Shall never be by woman lovd. | |
The wanton boy that kills the fly | |
Shall feel the spiders enmity. | |
He who torments the chafers sprite | 35 |
Weaves a bower in endless night. | |
The caterpillar on the leaf | |
Repeats to thee thy mothers grief. | |
Kill not the moth nor butterfly, | |
For the last judgment draweth nigh. | 40 |
He who shall train the horse to war | |
Shall never pass the polar bar. | |
The beggars dog and widows cat, | |
Feed them and thou wilt grow fat. | |
The gnat that sings his summers song | 45 |
Poison gets from slanders tongue. | |
The poison of the snake and newt | |
Is the sweat of envys foot. | |
The poison of the honey bee | |
Is the artists jealousy. | 50 |
The princes robes and beggars rags | |
Are toadstools on the misers bags. | |
A truth thats told with bad intent | |
Beats all the lies you can invent. | |
It is right it should be so; | 55 |
Man was made for joy and woe; | |
And when this we rightly know, | |
Thro the world we safely go. | |
Joy and woe are woven fine, | |
A clothing for the soul divine. | 60 |
Under every grief and pine | |
Runs a joy with silken twine. | |
The babe is more than swaddling bands; | |
Throughout all these human lands | |
Tools were made, and born were hands, | 65 |
Every farmer understands. | |
Every tear from every eye | |
Becomes a babe in eternity; | |
This is caught by females bright, | |
And returnd to its own delight. | 70 |
The bleat, the bark, bellow, and roar, | |
Are waves that beat on heavens shore. | |
The babe that weeps the rod beneath | |
Writes revenge in realms of death. | |
The beggars rags, fluttering in air, | 75 |
Does to rags the heavens tear. | |
The soldier, armd with sword and gun, | |
Palsied strikes the summers sun. | |
The poor mans farthing is worth more | |
Than all the gold on Africs shore. | 80 |
One mite wrung from the labrers hands | |
Shall buy and sell the misers lands; | |
Or, if protected from on high, | |
Does that whole nation sell and buy. | |
He who mocks the infants faith | 85 |
Shall be mockd in age and death. | |
He who shall teach the child to doubt | |
The rotting grave shall neer get out. | |
He who respects the infants faith | |
Triumphs over hell and death. | 90 |
The childs toys and the old mans reasons | |
Are the fruits of the two seasons. | |
The questioner, who sits so sly, | |
Shall never know how to reply. | |
He who replies to words of doubt | 95 |
Doth put the light of knowledge out. | |
The strongest poison ever known | |
Came from Caesars laurel crown. | |
Nought can deform the human race | |
Like to the armours iron brace. | 100 |
When gold and gems adorn the plow, | |
To peaceful arts shall envy bow. | |
A riddle, or the crickets cry, | |
Is to doubt a fit reply. | |
The emmets inch and eagles mile | 105 |
Make lame philosophy to smile. | |
He who doubts from what he sees | |
Will neer believe, do what you please. | |
If the sun and moon should doubt, | |
Theyd immediately go out. | 110 |
To be in a passion you good may do, | |
But no good if a passion is in you. | |
The whore and gambler, by the state | |
Licensed, build that nations fate. | |
The harlots cry from street to street | 115 |
Shall weave old Englands winding-sheet. | |
The winners shout, the losers curse, | |
Dance before dead Englands hearse. | |
Every night and every morn | |
Some to misery are born, | 120 |
Every morn and every night | |
Some are born to sweet delight. | |
Some are born to sweet delight, | |
Some are born to endless night. | |
We are led to believe a lie | 125 |
When we see not thro the eye, | |
Which was born in a night to perish in a night, | |
When the soul slept in beams of light. | |
God appears, and God is light, | |
To those poor souls who dwell in night; | 130 |
But does a human form display | |
To those who dwell in realms of day. | |
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