Phenomenal Woman by Maya Angelou

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's sizeBut when I start to tell them,They think I'm telling lies.I say,It's in the reach of my armsThe span of my hips,The stride of my step,The curl of my lips.I'm a womanPhenomenally.Phenomenal woman,That's me.

I walk into a roomJust as cool as you please,And to a man,The fellows stand orFall down on their knees.Then they swarm around me,A hive of honey bees.I say,It's the fire in my eyes,And the flash of my teeth,The swing in my waist,And the joy in my feet.I'm a womanPhenomenally.Phenomenal woman,

That's me.

Men themselves have wonderedWhat they see in me.They try so muchBut they can't touchMy inner mystery.When I try to show themThey say they still can't see.I say,It's in the arch of my back,The sun of my smile,The ride of my breasts,The grace of my style.I'm a woman

Phenomenally.Phenomenal woman,That's me.

Now you understandJust why my head's not bowed.I don't shout or jump aboutOr have to talk real loud.When you see me passingIt ought to make you proud.I say,It's in the click of my heels,The bend of my hair,the palm of my hand,The need of my care,'Cause I'm a womanPhenomenally.Phenomenal woman,That's me.

Siren Song by Margaret Atwood

This is the one song everyone would like to learn: the songthat is irresistible:

the song that forces mento leap overboard in squadronseven though they see the beached skulls

the song nobody knowsbecause anyone who has heard itis dead, and the others can't remember.

Shall I tell you the secretand if I do, will you get me out of this bird suit?

I don’t enjoy it heresquatting on this islandlooking picturesque and mythical

with these two feathery maniacs,I don't enjoy singing this trio, fatal and valuable.

I will tell the secret to you,to you, only to you.Come closer. This song

is a cry for help: Help me!Only you, only you can,you are unique

at last. Alasit is a boring songbut it works every time.

Fragment by Anne Bronte

'Maiden, thou wert thoughtless onceOf beauty or of grace,Simple and homely in attireCareless of form and face.Then whence this change, and why so oftDost smooth thy hazel hair?And wherefore deck thy youthful formWith such unwearied care? 'Tell us - and cease to tire our earsWith yonder hackneyed strain -Why wilt thou play those simple tunesSo often o'er again?''Nay, gentle friends, I can but sayThat childhood's thoughts are gone.Each year its own new feelings bringsAnd years move swiftly on,

And for these little simple airs,I love to play them o'er -So much I dare not promise nowTo play them never more.'I answered and it was enough;They turned them to depart;They could not read my secret thoughtsNor see my throbbing heart.

I've noticed many a youthful formUpon whose changeful faceThe inmost workings of the soulThe gazer's eye might trace.

The speaking eye, the changing lip, The ready blushing cheek,The smiling or beclouded browTheir different feelings speak.

But, thank God! you might gaze on mineFor hours and never knowThe secret changes of my soulFrom joy to bitter woe.Last night, as we sat round the fireConversing merrily,We heard without approaching stepsOf one well known to me.

There was no trembling in my voice,No blush upon my cheek,No lustrous sparkle in my eyes,Of hope or joy to speak;But O my spirit burned within,My heart beat thick and fast.He came not nigh - he went awayAnd then my joy was past.

And yet my comrades marked it not,My voice was still the same;They saw me smile, and o'er my face -No signs of sadness came;They little knew my hidden thoughtsAnd they will never knowThe anguish of my drooping heart,The bitter aching woe!

Life by Charlotte Bronte

LIFE, believe, is not a dreamSo dark as sages say;Oft a little morning rainForetells a pleasant day. Sometimes there are clouds of gloom,But these are transient all;If the shower will make the roses bloom,O why lament its fall ?

Rapidly, merrily,Life's sunny hours flit by,Gratefully, cheerily,Enjoy them as they fly !

What though Death at times steps inAnd calls our Best away ?What though sorrow seems to win,O'er hope, a heavy sway ?Yet hope again elastic springs,Unconquered, though she fell;Still buoyant are her golden wings,Still strong to bear us well.Manfully, fearlessly,The day of trial bear,For gloriously, victoriously,Can courage quell despair !

Remembrance by Emily Bronte

Cold in the earth—and the deep snow piled above thee,Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave!Have I forgot, my only Love, to love thee,Severed at last by Time's all-severing wave?

Now, when alone, do my thoughts no longer hoverOver the mountains, on that northern shore,Resting their wings where heath and fern-leaves coverThat noble heart for ever, ever more?

Cold in the earth, and fifteen wild DecembersFrom those brown hills have melted into spring:Faithful indeed is the spirit that remembersAfter such years of change and suffering!

Sweet Love of youth, forgive if I forget thee,While the world's tide is bearing me along:Sterner desires and other hopes beset me,Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong!

No later light has lightened up my heaven;No second morn has ever shone for me:All my life's bliss from thy dear life was given,All my life's bliss is in the grave with thee.

But when the days of golden dreams had perished,And even Despair was powerless to destroy,Then did I learn how existence could be cherished,Strengthened, and fed without the aid of joy;

Then did I check the tears of useless passion,Weaned my young soul from yearning after thine;Sternly denied its burning wish to hastenDown to that tomb already more than mine.

And even yet I dare not let it languish,Dare not indulge in Memory's rapturous pain;Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish,How could I seek the empty world again?

Sonnet 43 by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.I love thee to the depth and breadth and heightMy soul can reach, when feeling out of sightFor the ends of Being and ideal Grace.I love thee to the level of everyday'sMost quiet need, by sun and candle-light.I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.I love thee with the passion put to useIn my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.I love thee with a love I seemed to loseWith my lost saints,—I love thee with the breath,Smiles, tears, of all my life!—and, if God choose,I shall but love thee better after death.

I Made A Mistake by Charles Bukowski

I reached up into the top of the closetand took out a pair of blue pantiesand showed them to her andasked "are these yours?" and she looked and said,"no, those belong to a dog." she left after that and I haven't seenher since. she's not at her place.I keep going there, leaving notes stuckinto the door. I go back and the notesare still there. I take the Maltese crosscut it down from my car mirror, tie itto her doorknob with a shoelace, leavea book of poems.when I go back the next night everythingis still there. I keep searching the streets for thatblood-wine battleship she driveswith a weak battery, and the doorshanging from broken hinges. I drive around the streets an inch away from weeping,ashamed of my sentimentality andpossible love. a confused old man driving in the rainwondering where the good luckwent.

Fast rode the knight by Stephen Crane

Fast rode the knightWith spurs, hot and reeking,Ever waving an eager sword,"To save my lady!"Fast rode the knIght,And leaped from saddle to war.Men of steel flickered and gleamedLike riot of silver lights,And the gold of the knight's good bannerStill waved on a castle wall.. . . . .A horse,Blowing, staggering, bloody thing,Forgotten at foot of castle wall.A horseDead at foot of castle wall.

[i carry your heart with me(i carry it in]By e. e. cummings

i carry your heart with me(i carry it inmy heart)i am never without it(anywherei go you go,my dear;and whatever is doneby only me is your doing,my darling) i fearno fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i wantno world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meantand whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows(here is the root of the root and the bud of the budand the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which growshigher than soul can hope or mind can hide)and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

There is another sky by Emily Dickinson

There is another sky,Ever serene and fair,And there is another sunshine,Though it be darkness there;Never mind faded forests, Austin,Never mind silent fields -Here is a little forest,Whose leaf is ever green;Here is a brighter garden,Where not a frost has been;In its unfading flowersI hear the bright bee hum:Prithee, my brother,Into my garden come!

The Naming Of Cats by T. S. Eliot

The Naming of Cats is a difficult matter,It isn't just one of your holiday games;You may think at first I'm as mad as a hatterWhen I tell you, a cat must have THREE DIFFERENT NAMES.First of all, there's the name that the family use daily,Such as Peter, Augustus, Alonzo or James,Such as Victor or Jonathan, George or Bill Bailey--All of them sensible everyday names.There are fancier names if you think they sound sweeter,Some for the gentlemen, some for the dames:Such as Plato, Admetus, Electra, Demeter--But all of them sensible everyday names.But I tell you, a cat needs a name that's particular,A name that's peculiar, and more dignified,Else how can he keep up his tail perpendicular,Or spread out his whiskers, or cherish his pride?Of names of this kind, I can give you a quorum,Such as Munkustrap, Quaxo, or Coricopat,Such as Bombalurina, or else Jellylorum-Names that never belong to more than one cat.But above and beyond there's still one name left over,And that is the name that you never will guess;The name that no human research can discover--But THE CAT HIMSELF KNOWS, and will never confess.When you notice a cat in profound meditation,The reason, I tell you, is always the same:His mind is engaged in a rapt contemplationOf the thought, of the thought, of the thought of his name:His ineffable effableEffanineffableDeep and inscrutable singular Name.

The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,And sorry I could not travel bothAnd be one traveler, long I stoodAnd looked down one as far as I couldTo where it bent in the undergrowth;Then took the other, as just as fair,And having perhaps the better claim,Because it was grassy and wanted wear;Though as for that the passing thereHad worn them really about the same,And both that morning equally layIn leaves no step had trodden black.Oh, I kept the first for another day!Yet knowing how way leads on to way,I doubted if I should ever come back.I shall be telling this with a sighSomewhere ages and ages hence:Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-I took the one less traveled by,And that has made all the difference.

I, Too, Sing America by Langston Hughes

I, too, sing America.

I am the darker brother.They send me to eat in the kitchenWhen company comes,But I laugh,And eat well,And grow strong.

Tomorrow,I'll be at the tableWhen company comes.Nobody'll dareSay to me,"Eat in the kitchen,"Then.

Besides, They'll see how beautiful I amAnd be ashamed--

I, too, am America.

The Prodigal Son by Rudyard Kipling

Here come I to my own again, Fed, forgiven and known again, Claimed by bone of my bone again And cheered by flesh of my flesh. The fatted calf is dressed for me, But the husks have greater zest for me, I think my pigs will be best for me, So I'm off to the Yards afresh.

I never was very refined, you see, (And it weighs on my brother's mind, you see)But there's no reproach among swine, d'you see, For being a bit of a swine.So I'm off with wallet and staff to eat The bread that is three parts chaff to wheat, But glory be! - there's a laugh to it, Which isn't the case when we dine.

My father glooms and advises me, My brother sulks and despises me, And Mother catechises me Till I want to go out and swear. And, in spite of the butler's gravity, I know that the servants have it I Am a monster of moral depravity, And I'm damned if I think it's fair!

I wasted my substance, I know I did,

On riotous living, so I did, But there's nothing on record to show I did Worse than my betters have done. They talk of the money I spent out there -They hint at the pace that I went out there -But they all forget I was sent out there Alone as a rich man's son.

So I was a mark for plunder at once, And lost my cash (can you wonder?) at once, But I didn't give up and knock under at once, I worked in the Yards, for a spell, Where I spent my nights and my days with hogs. And shared their milk and maize with hogs, Till, I guess, I have learned what pays with hogs And - I have that knowledge to sell!

So back I go to my job again, Not so easy to rob again, Or quite so ready to sob again On any neck that's around.I'm leaving, Pater. Good-bye to you!God bless you, Mater! I'll write to you! I wouldn't be impolite to you,But, Brother, you are a hound

!

The Rainy Day by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The day is cold, and dark, and drearyIt rains, and the wind is never weary;The vine still clings to the mouldering wall,But at every gust the dead leaves fall,And the day is dark and dreary.

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;It rains, and the wind is never weary;My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past,But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,And the days are dark and dreary.

Be still, sad heart! and cease repining;Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;Thy fate is the common fate of all,Into each life some rain must fall,Some days must be dark and dreary.

by Pablo Neruda

I want you to knowone thing.

You know how this is:if I lookat the crystal moon, at the red branchof the slow autumn at my window,if I touchnear the firethe impalpable ashor the wrinkled body of the log,everything carries me to you,as if everything that exists,aromas, light, metals,were little boatsthat sailtoward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,if little by little you stop loving meI shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenlyyou forget medo not look for me,for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,the wind of bannersthat passes through my life,and you decideto leave me at the shoreof the heart where I have roots,rememberthat on that day,at that hour,I shall lift my armsand my roots will set offto seek another land.

Butif each day,each hour,you feel that you are destined for mewith implacable sweetness,if each day a flowerclimbs up to your lips to seek me,ah my love, ah my own,in me all that fire is repeated,in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,my love feeds on your love, beloved,and as long as you live it will be in your armswithout leaving mine

A Dream Within A Dream by Edgar Allan Poe

Take this kiss upon the brow!And, in parting from you now,Thus much let me avow--You are not wrong, who deemThat my days have been a dream;Yet if hope has flown awayIn a night, or in a day,In a vision, or in none,Is it therefore the less gone?All that we see or seemIs but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roarOf a surf-tormented shore,And I hold within my handGrains of the golden sand--How few! yet how they creepThrough my fingers to the deep,While I weep--while I weep!O God! can I not graspThem with a tighter clasp?O God! can I not saveOne from the pitiless wave?Is all that we see or seemBut a dream within a dream?

A Girl by Ezra Pound

The tree has entered my hands, The sap has ascended my arms, The tree has grown in my breast- Downward, The branches grow out of me, like arms.

Tree you are, Moss you are, You are violets with wind above them. A child - so high - you are, And all this is folly to the world.

by Jack Prelutsky

As soon as Fred gets out of bed,his underwear goes on his head.His mother laughs, "Don't put it there,a head's no place for underwear!"But near his ears, above his brains,is where Fred's underwear remains.

At night when Fred goes back to bed,he deftly plucks it off his head.His mother switches off the lightand softly croons, "Good night! Good night!"And then, for reasons no one knows,Fred's underwear goes on his toes.

Chicago by Carl Sandburg

Hog Butcher for the World,Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat,Player with Railroads and the Nation's Freight Handler;Stormy, husky, brawling,City of the Big Shoulders;

They tell me you are wicked and I believe them, for I have seen yourpainted women under the gas lamps luring the farm boys.And they tell me you are crooked and I answer: Yes, it is true I haveseen the gunman kill and go free to kill again.And they tell me you are brutal and my reply is: On the faces of womenand children I have seen the marks of wanton hunger.And having answered so I turn once more to those who sneer at this mycity, and I give them back the sneer and say to them:Come and show me another city with lifted head singing so proud to bealive and coarse and strong and cunning.Flinging magnetic curses amid the toil of piling job on job, here is a tallbold slugger set vivid against the little soft cities;Fierce as a dog with tongue lapping for action, cunning as a savage pittedagainst the wilderness,Bareheaded,Shoveling,Wrecking,Planning,Bulding, breaking, rebuilding,Under the smoke, dust all over his mouth, laughing with white teeth,Under the terrible burden of destiny laughing as a young man laughs,Laughing even as an ignorant fighter laughs who has never lost a battle,Bragging and laughing that under his wrist is the pulse, and under hisribs the heart of the people,Laughing!Laughing the stormy, husky, brawling laughter of Youth, half-naked,sweating, pround to be Hog Butcher, Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat,Player with Railroads and Freight Handler to the Nation.

All the World's a Stage by 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 schoolboy, with his satchelAnd shining morning face, creeping like snailUnwillingly to school. And then the lover,Sighing like furnace, with a woeful balladMade to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,Seeking the bubble reputationEven in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,In fair round belly with 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 shiftsInto the lean and slippered pantaloon,With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wideFor his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,Turning again toward childish treble, pipesAnd 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.

by Shel Silverstein

There is a place where the sidewalk endsAnd before the street begins,And there the grass grows soft and white,And there the sun burns crimson bright,And there the moon-bird rests from his flightTo cool in the peppermint wind.

Let us leave this place where the smoke blows blackAnd the dark street winds and bends.Past the pits where the asphalt flowers growWe shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,And watch where the chalk-white arrows goTo the place where the sidewalk ends.

Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,For the children, they mark, and the children, they knowThe place where the sidewalk ends.

A Good Boy by Robert Louis Stevenson

I woke before the morning, I was happy all the day, I never said an ugly word, but smiled and stuck to play.

And now at last the sun is going down behind the wood, And I am very happy, for I know that I've been good.

My bed is waiting cool and fresh, with linen smooth and fair, And I must be off to sleepsin-by, and not forget my prayer.

I know that, till to-morrow I shall see the sun arise, No ugly dream shall fright my mind, no ugly sight my eyes.

But slumber hold me tightly till I waken in the dawn, And hear the thrushes singing in the lilacs round the lawn.

O Captain! My Captain! by Walt Whitman

1O CAPTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip is done; The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won; The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring: But O heart! heart! heart!O the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.

2O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; Rise up-for you the flag is flung-for you the bugle trills;For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths-for you the shores a-crowding; For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning; Here Captain! dear father! This arm beneath your head; It is some dream that on the deck,You've fallen cold and dead.

3My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still; My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will; The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done; From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won;Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells! But I, with mournful tread, Walk the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.

To My Wife - With A Copy Of My Poems by Oscar Wilde

I can write no stately proemAs a prelude to my lay;From a poet to a poemI would dare to say.

For if of these fallen petalsOne to you seem fair,Love will waft it till it settlesOn your hair.

And when wind and winter hardenAll the loveless land,It will whisper of the garden,You will understand.

I Wandered Lonely As A Cloud by William Wordsworth

I wandered lonely as a cloudThat floats on high o'er vales and hills,When all at once I saw a crowd,A host, of golden daffodils;Beside the lake, beneath the trees,Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shineAnd twinkle on the milky way,They stretched in never-ending lineAlong the margin of a bay:Ten thousand saw I at a glance,Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced, but theyOut-did the sparkling leaves in glee;A poet could not be but gay,In such a jocund company!I gazed—and gazed—but little thoughtWhat wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lieIn vacant or in pensive mood,They flash upon that inward eyeWhich is the bliss of solitude;And then my heart with pleasure fills,And dances with the daffodils.

Brown Penny by William

I whispered, 'I am too young,'And then, 'I am old enough';Wherefore I threw a pennyTo find out if I might love.'Go and love, go and love, young man,If the lady be young and fair.'Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny,I am looped in the loops of her hair.

O love is the crooked thing,There is nobody wise enoughTo find out all that is in it,For he would be thinking of loveTill the stars had run awayAnd the shadows eaten the moon.Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny,One cannot begin it too soon.