George Gordon Byron – She Walks in Beauty

She walks in beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies;

And all that’s best of dark and bright

Meet in her aspect and her eyes;

Thus mellowed to that tender light

Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,

Had half impaired the nameless grace

Which waves in every raven tress,

Or softly lightens o’er her face;

Where thoughts serenely sweet express,

How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,

The smiles that win, the tints that glow,

But tell of days in goodness spent,

A mind at peace with all below,

A heart whose love is innocent!

Charlotte Mew – To A Child In Death

You would have scoffed if we had told you yesterday

Love made us feel, or so it was with me, like some great bird

Trying to hold and shelter you in its strong wing: --

A gay little shadowy smile would have tossed us back such a solemn word,

And it was not for that you were listening When so quietly you slipped away

With half the music of the world unheard.

What shall we do with this strange summer, meant for you, --

Dear, if we see the winter through What shall be done with spring -- ?

This, this is the victory of the grave; here is death's sting.

That it is not strong enough, our strongest wing.

But what of His who like a Father pitieth?

His Son was also, once, a little thing,

The wistfullest child that ever drew breath,

Chased by a sword from Bethlehem and in the busy house at Nazereth

Playing with little rows of nails, watching the carpenter's hammer swing,

Long years before His hands and feet were tied

And by a hammer and three great nails He died,

Of youth, of spring, Of sorrow, of loneliness, of victory the King,

Under the shadow of that wing.

Thomas Stearns Eliot – Spleen

Sunday: this satisfied procession

Of definite Sunday faces;

Bonnets, silk hats, and conscious graces

In repetition that displaces

Your mental self-possession

By this unwarranted digression.

Evening, lights, and tea!

Children and cats in the alley;

Dejection unable to rally

Against this dull conspiracy.

And Life, a little bald and gray,

Languid, fastidious, and bland,

Waits, hat and gloves in hand,

Punctilious of tie and suit

(Somewhat impatient of delay)

On the doorstep of the Absolute.

Edgar Allan Poe – A Valentine

For her this rhyme is penned, whose luminous eyes,

Brightly expressive as the twins of Leda,

Shall find her own sweet name, that nestling lies

Upon the page, enwrapped from every reader.

Search narrowly the lines!- they hold a treasure

Divine- a talisman- an amulet

That must be worn at heart. Search well the measure-

The words- the syllables! Do not forget

The trivialest point, or you may lose your labor

And yet there is in this no Gordian knot

Which one might not undo without a sabre,

If one could merely comprehend the plot.

Enwritten upon the leaf where now are peering

Eyes scintillating soul, there lie perdus

Three eloquent words oft uttered in the hearing

Of poets, by poets- as the name is a poet's, too,

Its letters, although naturally lying

Like the knight Pinto- Mendez Ferdinando-

Still form a synonym for Truth- Cease trying!

You will not read the riddle, though you do the best you can do.

Charles Bukowski – back to the machine gun

washed-up, on shore, the old yellow notebook
out again
I write from the bed
as I did last
year.
will see the doctor,
Monday.
"yes, doctor, weak legs, vertigo, head-
aches and my back
hurts."
"are you drinking?" he will ask.
"are you getting your
exercise, your
vitamins?"
I think that I am just ill
with life, the same stale yet
fluctuating
factors.
even at the track
I watch the horses run by
and it seems
meaningless.
I leave early after buying tickets on the
remaining races.
"taking off?" asks the motel
clerk.
"yes, it's boring,"
I tell him.
"If you think it's boring
out there," he tells me, "you oughta be
back here."
so here I am
propped up against my pillows
again
just an old guy
just an old writer
with a yellow
notebook.
something is
walking across the
floor
toward
me.
oh, it's just
my cat
this
time.