1. POETRY

1. LEISURE

(William Henry Davies)

What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.

No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows.

No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.

No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night.

No time to turn at Beauty's glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance.

No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began.

A poor life this if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.

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2. TARTARY

(Walter de la Mare)

If I were Lord of Tartary,

Myself, and me alone,

My bed should be of ivory,

Of beaten gold my throne;

And in my court should peacocks flaunt,

And in my forests tigers haunt,

And in my pools great fishes slant

Their fins athwart the sun.

If I were Lord of Tartary,
Trumpeters every day
To all my meals should summon me,
And in my courtyards bray;
And in the evening lamps should shine,
Yellow as honey, red as wine,
While harp, and flute, and mandoline
Made music sweet and gay.

If I were Lord of Tartary,
I'd wear a robe of beads,
White, and gold, and green they'd be --
And small and thick as seeds;
And ere should wane the morning star,
I'd don my robe and scimitar.
And zebras seven should draw my car
Through Tartary's dark glades.

Lord of the fruits of Tartary.
Her rivers silver-pale!
Lord of the hills of Tartary.
Glen, thicket, wood, and dale!
Her flashing stars, her scented breeze,
Her trembling lakes, like foamless seas,
Her bird-delighting citron-trees,
In every purple vale! 

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3. NEW YEAR RESOLUTIONS

(Elizabeth Sewell)

I will drain
Long draughts of quiet
As a purgation;

Remember
Twice daily
Who I am;

Will lie o' nights
In the bony arms
Of Reality and be comforted.

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4. WOMAN WORK

(Maya Angelou)

I've got the children to tend
The clothes to mend
The floor to mop
The food to shop

The chicken to fry
The baby to dry
I got company to feed
The garden to weed
I've got the shirts to press
The tots to dress
The cane to be cut
I got to clean up this hut. 

Shine on me, sunshine
Rain on me, rain
Fall softly, dewdrops
And cool my brow again. 

Storm, blow me from here
With your fiercest wind
Let me float across the sky
Till I can rest again. 

Fall gently, snow flakes
Cover me with white
Cold icy kisses and 
Let me rest tonight. 

Sun, rain, curving sky
Mountain, oceans, leaf and stone
Star shine, moon glow
You're all that I can call my own. 

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5. THE REBEL 

(Dennis Joseph Enright) 

When everybody has short hair, 
The rebel lets his hair grow long. 

When everybody has long hair, 
The rebel cuts his hair short. 

When everybody talks during the lesson, 
The rebel does not say a word. 

When nobody talks during the lesson, 
The rebel creates a disturbance. 

When everybody wears a uniform, 
The rebel dresses in fantastic clothes. 

When everybody wears fantastic clothes
The rebel dresses soberly. 

In the company of dog lovers, 
The rebel expresses a preference for cats. 

In the company of cat lovers, 
The rebel puts in a good word for dogs. 

When everybody is praising the sun, 
The rebel remarks on the need for rain. 

When everybody is greeting the rain, 
The rebel regrets the absence of sun. 

When everybody goes to the meeting, 
The rebel stays at home and reads a book. 

When everybody stays at home and reads a book, 
The rebel goes to the meeting. 

When everybody says, yes please!
The rebel says, No thank you. 

When everybody says: No thank you, 
The rebel says, yes please!

It is very good that we have rebels
You may not find it very good to be one.

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6. PATRIOT INTO TRAITOR

(Robert Browning) 

It was roses, roses, all the way, 
With myrtle mixed in my path like mad:
The house-roofs seemed to heave and sway, 
The church-spires flames, such flags they had, 
A year ago on this very day. 

The air broke into a mist with bells, 
The old walls rocked with the crowd and cries. 
Had I said, "Good folk, mere noise repels--
But give me your sun from yonder skies!"
They had answered, "And afterward, what else?"

Alack, it was I who leaped at the sun
To give it my loving friends to keep!
Nought man could do, have I left undone:
And you see my harvest, what I reap
This very day, now a year is run. 

There's nobody on the house-tops now--
Just a palsied few at the windows set;
For the best of the sight is, all allow, 
At the Shambles' Gate-- or, better yet, 
By the very scaffold's foot. I trow. 

I go in the rain, and more than needs, 
A rope cuts both my writs behind;
And think, by the feel, my forehead bleeds, 
For they fling, whoever has a mind,
Stones at me for my year's misdeeds. 

Thus I entered, and thus I go!
In triumphs, people have dropped down dead. 
"Paid by the world, what dost thou owe
Me?"-- God might question; now instead, 
'Tis God shall repay: I am safer so. 

7. THE HUNTSMAN 

(Edward Lowbury)

Kagwa hunted the lion, 
Through bush and forest went his spear,
One day he found the skull of a man
And said to it, 'how did you come here?'
And the skull answered, 'talking brought me here.'

Kagwa hurried home, went to the king's chair and spoke, 
"In the forest I found a talking skull"
The king was silent, then he said slowly, 
"Never since I was born of my mother
Have I seen or heard of a skill which spoke."

The king called out his guards, 
"Two of you now go with him
And find the talking skull;
And if his tale is a lie
And the skull speaks no word, 
This Kagwa himself must die." 

They rode into the forest;
For days and nights they found nothing. 
At last they saw the skull; Kagwa 
Said to it, "How did you come here?"
The skull said nothing. Kagwa implored, 
But the skull said nothing. 

The guards said, "Kneel down"
They killed him with sword and spear. 
Then the skull opened its mouth, 
"Huntsman, how did you come here?"
And the dead man answered, 
'Talking brought me here'. 

8. ONE ART

(Elizabeth Bishop)

The art of losing isn't hard to master:
So many things seem filled with the intent
To be lost that their loss in no disaster. 

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
Of lost door keys, the hour badly spent. 
The art of losing isn't hard to master. 

Then practice losing farther, losing faster: 
Places, and names, and where it was you meant
To travel. None of these will bring disaster. 

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
Next-to-last, of three loved houses went. 
The art of losing isn't hard to master. 

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster, 
Some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent. 
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster. 

--Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
The art of losing is not too hard to master
Though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

9. THE SOLITARY REAPER

(William Wordsworth) 

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 profound
Is overflowing with the sound. 

No Nightingale did ever chant
More welcome notes to weary bands 
Of travellers in some shady haunt, 
Among Arabian sands:
A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard
In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird, 
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides. 

Will no one tell me what she sings? --
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For 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? 

Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work, 
And o'er 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. 

10. ALL THE WORLD'S A STAGE

(William Shakespeare)

All the world's a stage, 
And all the men and women merely players. 
They have their exits and their 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 school-boy 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 a good capon lined,
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 slippered pantaloon, 
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side, 
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice, 
Turning again toward 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.