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PSALM 23 ByKing David

The LORD is my shepherd; I shall not want.

He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth mebeside the still waters.He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths ofrighteousness for his name's sake.Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staffthey comfort me.Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mineenemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth

over.Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of mylife: and I will dwell in the house of the LORD forever.

THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERDTO HIS LOVE ByChristopherMarlowe

Come live with me and be my love,And we will all the pleasures proveThat valleys, groves, hills, and fields,Woods, or steepy mountain yields.

And we will sit upon rocks,Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks,By shallow rivers to whose fallsMelodious birds sing madrigals.

And I will make thee beds of roses

And a thousand fragrant poises,A cap of flowers, and a kirtleEmbroidered all with leaves of myrtle;

A gown made of the finest woolWhich from our pretty lambs we pull;Fair lined slippers for the cold,With buckles of the 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's swains shall dance and singFor thy delight each May morning:If these delights thy mind may move,Then live with me and be my love.

THE NYMPHS REPLY TO THE SHEPHERD By SirWalterRaleigh

If all the world and love were young,And truth in every shepherd's tongue,These pretty pleasures might me moveTo live with thee and be thy love.Time drives the flocks from field to foldWhen rivers rage and rocks grow cold,And Philomel becometh dumb;The rest complains of cares to come.The flowers do fade, and wanton fieldsTo wayward winter reckoning yields;

A honey tongue, a heart of gall,Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall.Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posiesSoon break, soon wither, soon forgottenIn folly ripe, in season rotten.Thy belt of straw and ivy buds,Thy coral clasps and amber studs,All these in me no means can moveTo come to thee and be thy love.

But could youth last and love still breed,Had joys no date nor age no need,Then these delights my mind might moveTo live with thee and be thy love.

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"See that the messenger takes some refreshment.No, no answer."And I walked into the garden,

Up and down the patterned paths,In my stiff, correct brocade.The blue and yellow flowers stood up proudly in the sun,Each one.I stood upright too,Held rigid to the patternBy the stiffness of my gown.

Up and down I walked,Up and down.In a month he would have been my husband.In a month, here, underneath this lime,We would have broke the pattern;He for me, and I for him,He as Colonel, I as Lady,On this shady seat.He had a whimThat sunlight carried blessing.And I answered, "It shall be as you have said."

Now he is dead.In Summer and in Winter I shall walkUp and downThe patterned garden-pathsIn my stiff, brocaded gown.The squills and daffodilsWill give place to pillared roses, and to asters, and to snow.I shall goUp and down,In my gown.

Gorgeously arrayed,Boned and stayed.And the softness of my body will be guarded from embraceBy each button, hook, and lace.For the man who should loose me is dead,Fighting with the Duke in Flanders,In a pattern called a war.Christ! What are patterns for?

TO CELIA BY: Ben JonsonDRINK to me only with thine eyes,And I will pledge with mine;

Or leave a kiss but in the cupAnd I'll not look for wine.The thirst that from the soul doth riseDoth ask a drink divine;But might I of Jove's nectar sup,I would not change for thine.

I sent thee late a rosy wreath,Not so much honouring theeAs giving it a hope that thereIt could not wither'd be;But thou thereon didst only breathe,And sent'st it back to me;Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,Not of itself but thee!

TREES ByJoyce Kilmer

I think that I shall never see

A poem as lovely as a tree.A tree whose hungry mouth is prestAgainst the earth's sweet flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day,And lifts her leafy arms to pray;A tree that may in Summer wearA nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;

Who intimately lives with rain.Poems are made by fools like me,But only God can make a tree.

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