Poetry Midterm

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  1. LET us go then, you and I,
    When the evening is spread out against the sky
    Like a patient etherized upon a table;
    Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
    The muttering retreats         5
    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….         10
    Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
    Let us go and make our visit.
    • Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
    • By: T.S. Eliot

  2. And indeed there will be time
    For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
    Rubbing its back upon the window panes;         25
    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;         30
    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.
    • Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.
    • By: T.S. Eliot

  3. 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—         40
    (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         45
    Disturb the universe?
    In a minute there is time
    For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
    • Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.
    • By: T.S. Eliot

  4. And would it have been worth it, after all,
    Would it have been worth while,         100
    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:         105
    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.”
    • Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.
    • By: T.S. Eliot

  5. I grow old … I grow old …         120
    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.         125
    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         130
    Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
    • Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.
    • By: T.S. Eliot
  6. Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
    Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
    Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
    And summer's lease hath all too short a date:
    Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
    And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;
    And every fair from fair sometime declines,
    By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;
    But thy eternal summer shall not fade
    Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;
    Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
    When in eternal lines to time thou growest:
    So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
    So long lives this and this gives life to thee.
    • Sonnet #18
    • By: Shakspeare
  7. When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,
    I all alone beweep my outcast state
    And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries
    And look upon myself and curse my fate,
    Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
    Featured like him, like him with friends possess'd,
    Desiring this man's art and that man's scope,
    With what I most enjoy contented least;
    Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
    Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
    Like to the lark at break of day arising
    From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;
    For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings
    That then I scorn to change my state with kings.
    • Sonnet #29
    • Shakespeare
  8. When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
    I summon up remembrance of things past,
    I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
    And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste:
    Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow,
    For precious friends hid in death's dateless night,
    And weep afresh love's long since cancell'd woe,
    And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight:
    Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
    And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er
    The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,
    Which I new pay as if not paid before.
    But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
    All losses are restored and sorrows end.
    • Sonnet #30
    • Shakespeare
  9. That time of year thou mayst in me behold
    When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
    Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
    Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
    In me thou seest the twilight of such day
    As after sunset fadeth in the west,
    Which by and by black night doth take away,
    Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.
    In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire
    That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
    As the death-bed whereon it must expire
    Consumed with that which it was nourish'd by.
       This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong,
       To love that well which thou must leave ere long.
    • Sonnet #73
    • Shakespeare
  10. Let me not to the marriage of true minds
    Admit impediments. Love is not love
    Which alters when it alteration finds,
    Or bends with the remover to remove:
    O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
    That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
    It is the star to every wandering bark,
    Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
    Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
    Within his bending sickle's compass come:
    Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
    But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
       If this be error and upon me proved,
       I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
    • Sonnet #116
    • Shakespeare
  11. AS virtuous men pass mildly away, 
        And whisper to their souls to go, 
    Whilst some of their sad friends do say,
        "Now his breath goes," and some say, "No." [1]                    
    • A Valediction Forbidding Mourning
    • John Donne

  12. So let us melt, and make no noise,                                       5
        No tear-floods, nor sigh-tempests move ;
    'Twere profanation of our joys 
        To tell the laity our love. 

    Moving of th' earth brings harms and fears ;
        Men reckon what it did, and meant ;                              10
    But trepidation of the spheres, 
        Though greater far, is innocent.
    • A Valediction Forbidding Mourning
    • John Donne

  13. Dull sublunary lovers' love 
        —Whose soul is sense—cannot admit 
    Of absence, 'cause it doth remove                                     15
        The thing which elemented it. 

    But we by a love so much refined,
        That ourselves know not what it is, 
    Inter-assurèd of the mind, 
        Care less, eyes, lips and hands to miss.                           20
    • A valediction forbidding mourning
    • John Donne

  14. Our two souls therefore, which are one, 
        Though I must go, endure not yet 
    A breach, but an expansion, 
        Like gold to aery thinness beat. 

    If they be two, they are two so                                          25
        As stiff twin compasses are two ; 
    Thy soul, the fix'd foot, makes no show 
        To move, but doth, if th' other do. 

    And though it in the centre sit, 
        Yet, when the other far doth roam,                                30
    It leans, and hearkens after it, 
        And grows erect, as that comes home.
    • A Valediction Forbidding Mourning
    • John Donne
  15. Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
    Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so ;
    For those, whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow,
    Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
    From rest and sleep, which but thy picture[s] be,
    Much pleasure, then from thee much more must flow,
    And soonest our best men with thee do go,
    Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.
    Thou'rt slave to Fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
    And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
    And poppy, or charms can make us sleep as well,
    And better than thy stroke ;  why swell'st thou then ?
    One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
    And Death shall be no more ;  Death, thou shalt die.
    • Sonnet #10
    • John donne
  16. Batter my heart, three-person'd God ; for you
    As yet but knock ; breathe, shine, and seek to mend ;
    That I may rise, and stand, o'erthrow me, and bend
    Your force, to break, blow, burn, and make me new.
    I, like an usurp'd town, to another due,
    Labour to admit you, but O, to no end.
    Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend,
    But is captived, and proves weak or untrue.
    Yet dearly I love you, and would be loved fain,
    But am betroth'd unto your enemy ;
    Divorce me, untie, or break that knot again,
    Take me to you, imprison me, for I,
    Except you enthrall me, never shall be free,
    Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.
    • Sonnet #14
    • John Donne
  17. Little Lamb who made thee 
             Dost thou know who made thee 
    Gave thee life & bid thee feed. 
    By the stream & o'er the mead;
    Gave thee clothing of delight,
    Softest clothing wooly bright;
    Gave thee such a tender voice,
    Making all the vales rejoice! 
             Little Lamb who made thee 
             Dost thou know who made thee
    • The Lamb
    • William Blake
  18. Little Lamb I'll tell thee,
             Little Lamb I'll tell thee!
    He is called by thy name,
    For he calls himself a Lamb: 
    He is meek & he is mild, 
    He became a little child: 
    I a child & thou a lamb, 
    We are called by his name.
             Little Lamb God bless thee. 
             Little Lamb God bless thee.
    • The Lamb
    • William Blake
  19. Father, father, where are you going
           O do not walk so fast.
    Speak father, speak to your little boy
           Or else I shall be lost,

    The night was dark no father was there
           The child was wet with dew.
    The mire was deep, & the child did weep
           And away the vapour flew.
    • The Little Boy Lost
    • William Blake

  20. THE LITTLE boy lost in the lonely fen,
    Led by the wand’ring light,
    Began to cry; but God, ever nigh,
    Appear’d like his father, in white.
    He kissèd the child, and by the hand led,         5
    And to his mother brought,
    Who in sorrow pale, thro’ the lonely dale,
    Her little boy weeping sought.
    • The Little Boy Found
    • William Blake
  21. Tyger Tyger, burning bright, 
    In the forests of the night; 
    What immortal hand or eye, 
    Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

    In what distant deeps or skies. 
    Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
    On what wings dare he aspire?
    What the hand, dare seize the fire?
    • The Tyger
    • William Blake
  22. And what shoulder, & what art,
    Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
    And when thy heart began to beat,
    What dread hand? & what dread feet?

    What the hammer? what the chain, 
    In what furnace was thy brain?
    What the anvil? what dread grasp, 
    Dare its deadly terrors clasp!
    • The Tyger
    • William Blake
  23. When the stars threw down their spears 
    And water'd heaven with their tears: 
    Did he smile his work to see?
    Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

    Tyger Tyger burning bright, 
    In the forests of the night: 
    What immortal hand or eye,
    Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
    • The Tyger
    • William Blake
  24. In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
    A stately pleasure-dome decree:
    Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
    Through caverns measureless to man
    Down to a sunless sea.
    • Kubla Khan
    • Samuel Coleridge
  25. I met a traveller from an antique land
    Who said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
    Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,
    Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown
    And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
    Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
    Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
    The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.
    • Ozymandias
    • Percy Shelley
  26. And on the pedestal these words appear:
    `My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:
    Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!'
    Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
    Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
    The lone and level sands stretch far away".
    • Ozymandias
    • Percy Shelley

  27. That thou, light-wingèd Dryad of the trees,  
              In some melodious plot  
      Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,  
        Singest of summer in full-throated ease.
    • Ode to a Nightingale
    • John Keats

  28. MY heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains  
      My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,  
    Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains  
      One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:  
    'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,          5
      But being too happy in thine happiness,
    • Ode to a Nightingale
    • John Keats

  29. Away! away! for I will fly to thee,  
      Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,  
    But on the viewless wings of Poesy,  
      Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:  
    Already with thee! tender is the night,   35
      And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,  
        Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays  
              But here there is no light,  
      Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown  
        Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.   40
    • Ode to a Nightingale
    • John Keats

  30. Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!  
      No hungry generations tread thee down;  
    The voice I hear this passing night was heard  
      In ancient days by emperor and clown:  
    Perhaps the self-same song that found a path   65
      Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,  
        She stood in tears amid the alien corn;  
              The same that ofttimes hath  
      Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam  
        Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.   70
    • Ode to a Nightingale
    • John Keats

  31. Forlorn! the very word is like a bell  
      To toll me back from thee to my sole self!  
    Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well  
      As she is famed to do, deceiving elf.  
    Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades   75
      Past the near meadows, over the still stream,  
        Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep  
              In the next valley-glades:  
      Was it a vision, or a waking dream?  
        Fled is that music:—do I wake or sleep?   80
    • Ode to a Nightingale
    • John Keats
  32. I CELEBRATE myself, and sing myself,
    And what I assume you shall assume,
    For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.
    I loafe and invite my soul,
    I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.
    My tongue, every atom of my blood, form'd from this soil,
         this air,
    Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and
         their parents the same,
    • Song of Myself
    • Walt Whitman
  33. I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,
    Hoping to cease not till death.
    Creeds and schools in abeyance,
    Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never
    I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard,
    Nature without check with original energy.
    • Song of Myself
    • Walt Whitman
  34. Success is counted sweetest
    By those who ne'er succeed.
    To comprehend a nectar
    Requires sorest need.

    Not one of all the purple Host
    Who took the Flag today
    Can tell the definition
    So clear of victory

    As he defeated – dying –
    On whose forbidden ear
    The distant strains of triumph
    Burst agonized and clear!
    • Poems
    • Emily Dickinson
  35. Safe in their Alabaster Chambers -
    Untouched by Morning - 
    and untouched by noon -
    Sleep the meek members of the Resurrection, 
    Rafter of Satin and Roof of Stone - 

    Grand go the Years, 
    In the Crescent above them -
    Worlds scoop their Arcs - 
    and Firmaments - row -
    Diadems - drop -
    And Doges surrender -
    Soundless as Dots, 
    On a Disk of Snow.
    • Poems
    • Emily Dickinson
  36. I'm Nobody! Who are you? Are you – Nobody – too? Then there's a pair of us! Don't tell! they'd advertise – you know! How dreary – to be – Somebody! How public – like a Frog –  To tell one's name – the livelong June –  To an admiring Bog! -
    • Poems
    • Emily Dickinson
  37. Wild nights - Wild nights!
    Were I with thee
    Wild nights should be
    Our luxury!

    Futile - the winds -
    To a Heart in port -
    Done with the Compass -
    Done with the Chart!

    Rowing in Eden -
    Ah - the Sea!
    Might I but moor - tonight -
    In thee!
    • Poems
    • Emily Dickinson
  38. “Hope” is the thing with feathers -
    That perches in the soul -
    And sings the tune without the words -
    And never stops - at all -

    And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
    And sore must be the storm -
    That could abash the little Bird
    That kept so many warm -

    I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
    And on the strangest Sea -
    Yet - never - in Extremity,
    It asked a crumb - of me.
    • Poems
    • Emily Dickinson
  39. After great pain, a formal feeling comes –
    The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs –
    The stiff Heart questions ‘was it He, that bore,’
    And ‘Yesterday, or Centuries before’?

    The Feet, mechanical, go round –
    A Wooden way
    Of Ground, or Air, or Ought –
    Regardless grown,
    A Quartz contentment, like a stone –

    This is the Hour of Lead –
    Remembered, if outlived,
    As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow –
    First – Chill – then Stupor – then the letting go –
    • Poems
    • Emily Dickinson
  40. Because I could not stop for Death –
    He kindly stopped for me –
    The Carriage held but just Ourselves –
    And Immortality.

    We slowly drove – He knew no haste
    And I had put away
    My labor and my leisure too,
    For His Civility –
    • Poems
    • Emily Dickinson
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Poetry Midterm
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