Home	Software	Chess	Fractals	History	Crafts	Links	Business	Bibliographies	Genealogy	Other

Small Epiphanies

• Entries by Title
• Entries by first Line

Entries by Author

In Flanders Fields

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow.
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe;
To you from falling hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields. 
    
    

—John McCrae

Horkstow Grange

In Horkstow Grange there lived and old miser
You all do know him as I have heard say
It's him on his men that was named John Bowlin
And they fell out one market day

With a blackthorn stick old Steeleye struck him
As oft times he had threatened before
John Bowlin turned round all in a passion
And knocked old Steeleye into the floor.

Old Steeleye Span he was filled with John Bowlin
It happened to be on a market day
Old Steeleye swore with all his vengeance
He would swear his life away.

Pity them what see him suffer
Pity poor old Steeleye Span
John Bowlin's deeds they will be remembered
Pity poor old Steeleye Span
Pity poor old Steeleye Span. 
    
    

—Traditional

The Parting Glass

Of all the money that e'er I had
I spent it in good company.
And all the harm that e'er I've done,
Alas it was to none but me.
And all I've done
For want of wit,
To memory now I can't recall,
So fill to me the parting glass,
Goodnight and joy be with you all.

Of all the comrades e'er I had
They're sorry for my going away,
And all the sweethearts e'er I had,
They'd wish me one more day to stay.
But since it falls into my lot
That I should rise and they should not,
I gently rise and softly call
Goodnight and joy be with you all.

If I had money enough to spend
And leisure time to sit awhile,
There is a man in this town
That surely has my heart beguiled.
His lonely eyes,
His quiet mouth,
I own he has my heart in thrall,
So fill to me the parting glass,
Goodnight and joy be with you all. 
    
    

—Traditional

Because of a Dancer

Because of a Dancer,
The moon's on my shoulder
Because of a Dancer,
I'm waltzing through time
And part of the answer
Is that I'm getting no older
Because of the a Dancer,
I am holding the line.

Because of a Dancer,
I'm playing with angels
Because of a Dancer,
They have turned on the light
Because of a Dancer,
Oh I know where the rain goes
Because of a Dancer,
I am feeling alright.

Chorus

And if it all comes down,
To the whim of an angel,
And if it all comes down,
To the toss of a coin
And as we all go around,
We all get entangled,
Because of a Dancer,
The circle is joined.

Because of a Dancer,
I'm laughing at shadows
Because of a Dancer,
And all of the good times
Because of a Dancer,
There is no bastinado
Because of a Dancer,
I'm waltzing through time.

Chorus 
    
    

—John Stewart

The Puddler's Tale

They neither know of night or day,
They night and day pour out their thunder,
As every ingot rolls away,
A dozen more are split asunder.
There is a sign beside the gate,
"Eleven Days" since a man lay dying,
Now every shift brings fear and hate
And shaken men in terror crying.

The molten rivers boil away,
A fiery brew hell never equaled.
To their profits the bosses pray,
And Mammon sings in his grim cathedral.
His attendants join the choir,
And heaven help us if we're shirking,
Stoke the furnace–altar fire,
And just be thankful that we're working!

Do this, then, charge the hopper high
Lest you endure the Foreman's choler,
Do this, then, drain the tankards dry,
And let us toast the almighty dollar,
That keeps us chained here before the fire
Where heat and noise set the weak–a–quaking.
At the siren's infernal cry,
The open hearth sets the ground to shaking.

Do this, then, raise the babies high
And make them shriek with love and laughter!
Do this, then, kiss your woman's eyes
And raise a song unto the rafters!
Wash the steel mill from your hair,
Heap the table 'til it's breaking,
'Nor let terror enter there
And in the hearth set the glasses breaking. 
    
    

—Stan Rogers

Leave Her, Johnny, Leave Her

I thought I heard the old man say,
"Leave her, Johnny, leave her,
It's a long, hard pull to the next payday
And it's time for us to leave her".

Chorus

Leave her, Johnny, leave her!
Oh, leave her, Johnny, leave her,
For the voyage is done and the winds don't blow,
And it's time for us to leave her.

Oh, the winds were foul and the work was hard,
Leave her, Johnny, leave her!
From the Liverpool dock to the London yard
And it's time for us to leave her.

Chorus

Oh, the skipper was bad, but the mate was worse.
Leave her, Johnny, leave her!
He'd blow you down with a spike and a curse,
And it's time for us to leave her.

Chorus

It was rotten meat and moldy break,
Leave her, Johnny, leave her!
You'd eat it or you'd starve to death,
And it's time for us to leave her.

Chorus

Well it's time for us to say goodbye,
Leave her, Johnny, leave her!
For now those pumps are all pumped dry,
And it's time for us to leave her. 

Chorus
    
    

—Traditional

The Garden of Proserpine

Here, where the world is quiet;
Here, where all trouble seems
Dead winds' and spent waves' riot
In doubtful dreams of dreams;
I watch the green field growing
For reaping folk and sowing
For harvest–time and mowing,
A sleepy world of streams.

I am tired of tears and laughter,
And men that laugh and weep;
Of what may come hereafter
For men that sow to reap:
I am weary of days and hours,
Blown buds of barren flowers,
Desires and dreams and powers
And everything but sleep.

Here life has death for neighbor,
And far from eye or ear
Wan waves and wet winds labor,
Weak ships and spirits steer;
They drive adrift, and whither
They wot not who make thither;
But no such winds blow hither,
And no such things grow here.

No growth of moor or coppice,
No heather–flower or vine,
But bloomless buds of poppies,
Green grapes of Proserpine,
Pale beds of blowing rushes,
Where no leaf blooms or blushes
Save this whereout she crushes
For dead men deadly wine.

Pale, without name or number,
In fruitless fields of corn,
They bow themselves and slumber
All night till light is born;
And like a soul belated,
In hell and heaven unmated,
By cloud and mist abated
Comes out of darkness morn.

Though one were strong as seven,
He too with death shall dwell,
Nor wake with wings in heaven,
Nor weep for pains in hell;
Though one were fair as roses,
His beauty clouds and closes;
And well though love reposes,
In the end it is not well.

Pale, beyond porch and portal,
Crowned with calm leaves she stands
Who gathers all things mortal
With cold immortal hands;
Her languid lips are sweeter
Than love's who fears to greet her,
To men that mix and meet her
From many times and lands.

She waits for each and other,
She waits for all men born;
Forgets the earth her mother,
The life of fruits and corn;
And spring and seed and swallow
Take wing for her and follow
Where summer song rings hollow
And flowers are put to scorn.

There go the loves that wither,
The old loves with wearier wings;
And all dead years draw thither,
And all disastrous things;
Dead dreams of days forsaken,
Blind buds that snows have shaken,
Wild leaves that winds have taken,
Red strays of ruined springs.

We are not sure of sorrow;
And joy was never sure;
To–day will die to–morrow;
Time stoops to no man's lure;
And love, grown faint and fretful,
With lips but half regretful
Sighs, and with eyes forgetful
Weeps that no loves endure.

From too much love of living,
From hope and fear set free,
We thank with brief thanksgiving
Whatever gods may be
That no life lives for ever;
That dead men rise up never;
That even the weariest river
Winds somewhere safe to sea.

Then star nor sun shall waken,
Nor any change of light:
Nor sound of waters shaken,
Nor any sound or sight:
Nor wintry leaves nor vernal,
Nor days nor things diurnal;
Only the sleep eternal
In an eternal night. 
    
    

—Algernon Charles Swinburne

Jerusalem

And did those feet in ancient time
Walk upon England's mountains green?
And was the holy Lamb of God
On England's pleasant pastures seen?

And did the Countenance Divine
Shine forth upon our clouded hills?
And was Jerusalem builded here
Among these dark Satanic Mills?

Bring me my bow of burning gold:
Bring me my arrows of desire:
Bring me my spear: O clouds unfold!
Bring me my chariot of fire.

I will not cease from mental fight,
Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand
Till we have build Jerusalem
In England's green and pleasant land. 
    
    

—William Blake

St. Crispin's Day speech from "Henry V"

My cousin Westmoreland? No, my fair cousin:
If we are mark'd to die, we are enow
To do our country loss; and if to live,
The fewer men, the greater share of honour.
God's will! I pray thee, wish not one man more.
By Jove, I am not covetous for gold,
Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;
It yearns me not if men my garments wear;
Such outward things dwell not in my desires:
But if it be a sin to covet honour,
I am the most offending soul alive.
No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England;
God's peace! I would not lose so great an honour
As one man more, methinks, would share from me,
For the best hope I have. O! do not wish one more:
Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host,
That he which hath no stomach to this fight,
Let him depart; his passport shall be made,
And crowns for convoy put into his purse:
We would not die in that man's company
That fears his fellowship to die with us.
This day is called the feast of Crispian:
He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a tip–toe when this day is nam'd,
And rouse him at the name of Crispian.
He that shall live this day, and see old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
And say 'To–morrow is Saint Crispian':
Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars,
And say 'These wounds I had on Crispin's day.'
Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot,
But he'll remember with advantages
What feats he did this day. Then shall our names,
Familiar in his mouth as household words,
Harry the king, Bedford and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester,
Be in their flowing cups freshly remember'd.
This story shall the good man teach his son;
And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remebered;
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to–day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile
This day shall gentle his condition:
And gentleman in England now a–bed
Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day." 
    
    

—William Shakespeare

Black Girl (In The Pines)

Black girl, black girl, don't lie to me
Tell me where did you sleep last night?
In the pines, in the pines, where the sun never shines
And I shivered the whole night through

Black girl, black girl, where will you go?
I'm goin' where the cold wind blows
In the pines, in the pines, where the sun never shines
I will shiver the whole night through

My husband was a railroad man
Killed a mile and a half from here
His head was found in the driver's wheel
And his body haven't never been found

Black girl, balck girl, where will you go
I'm goin' where the cold wind blows
You caused me to weep and you caused me to moan
You caused me to leave my home 
    
    

—Huddie Ledbetter

Suzanne

Suzanne takes you down to her place near the river
You can hear the boats go by
You can spend the night beside her
And you know that she's half crazy
But that's why you want to be there
And she feeds you tea and oranges
That come all the way from China
And just when you mean to tell her
That you have no love to give her
Then she gets you on her wavelength
And she lets the river answer
That you've always been her lover
And you want to travel with her
And you want to travel blind
And you know that she will trust you
For you've touched her perfect body with your mind.

And Jesus was a sailor
When he walked upon the water
And he spent a long time watching
From his lonely wooden tower
And when he knew for certain
Only drowning men could see him
He said "All men will be sailors then
Until the sea shall free them"
But he himself was broken
Long before the sky would open
Forsaken, almost human
He sank beneath your wisdom like a stone
And you want to travel with him
And you want to travel blind
And you think maybe you'll trust him
For he's touched your perfect body with his mind.

Now Suzanne takes your hand
And she leads you to the river
She is wearing rags and feathers
From Salvation Army counters
And the sun pours down like honey
On our lady of the harbour
And she shows you where to look
Among the garbage and the flowers
There are heroes in the seaweed
There are children in the morning
They are leaning out for love
And they will lean that way forever
While Suzanne holds the mirror
And you want to travel with her
And you want to travel blind
And you know that you can trust her
For she's touched your perfect body with her mind. 
    
    

—Leonard Cohen

Crucifixion

And the night comes again to the circle studded sky
The stars settle slowly, in lonliness they lie
'Till the universe expodes as a falling star is raised
Planets are paralyzed, mountains are amazed
But they all glow brighter from the briliance of the blaze
With the speed of insanity, then he dies.

In the green fields a turnin', a baby is born
His cries crease the wind and mingle with the morn
An assault upon the order, the changing of the guard
Chosen for a challenge that is hopelessly hard
And the only single sound is the sighing of the stars
But to the silence and distance they are sworn

So dance dance dance
Teach us to be true
Come dance dance dance
'Cause we love you

Images of innocence charge him go on
But the decadence of destiny is looking for a pawn
To a nightmare of knowledge he opens up the gate
And a blinding revelation is laid upon his plate
That beneath the greatest love is a hurricane of hate
And God help the critic of the dawn.

So he stands on the sea and shouts to the shore,
But the louder that he screams the longer he's ignored
For the wine of oblivion is drunk to the dregs
And the merchants of the masses almost have to be begged
'Till the giant is aware, someone's pulling at his leg,
And someone is tapping at the door.

To dance dance dance
Teach us to be true
Come dance dance dance
'Cause we love you

Then his message gathers meaning and it spreads accross the land
The rewarding of his pain is the following of the man
But ignorance is everywhere and people have their way
Success is an enemy to the losers of the day
In the shadows of the churches, who knows what they pray
For blood is the language of the band.

The Spanish bulls are beaten; the crowd is soon beguiled,
The matador is beautiful, a symphony of style
Excitement is estatic, passion places bets
Gracefully he bows to ovations that he gets
But the hands that are applauding are slippery with sweat
And saliva is falling from their smiles

So dance dance dance
Teach us to be true
Come dance dance dance
'Cause we love you

Then this overflow of life is crushed into a liar
The gentle soul is ripped apart and tossed into the fire.
First a smile of rejection at the nearness of the night
Truth becomes a tragedy limping from the light
All the (canons|heavens) are horrified, they stagger from the sight
As the cross is trembling with desire.

They say they can't believe it, it's a sacreligious shame
Now, who would want to hurt such a hero of the game?
But you know I predicted it; I knew he had to fall
How did it happen? I hope his suffering was small.
Tell me every detail, I've got to know it all,
And do you have a picture of the pain?

So dance dance dance
Teach us to be true
Come dance dance dance
'Cause we love you

Time takes her toll and the memory fades
but his glory is broken, in the magic that he made.
Reality is ruined; it's the freeing from the fear
The drama is distorted, to what they want to hear
Swimming in their sorrow, in the twisting of a tear
As they wait for a new thrill parade.

The eyes of the rebel have been branded by the blind
To the safety of sterility, the threat has been refined
The child was created to the slaughterhouse he's led
So good to be alive when the eulogy is read
The climax of emotion, the worship of the dead
And the cycle of sacrifice unwinds.

So dance dance dance
Teach us to be true
Come dance dance dance
'Cause we love you

And the night comes again to the circle studded sky
The stars settle slowly, in lonliness they lie
'Till the universe expodes as a falling star is raised
Planets are paralyzed, mountains are amazed
But they all glow brighter from the briliance of the blaze
With the speed of insanity, then he died. 
    
    

—Phil Ochs

American Pie

A long long time ago
I can still remember how that music used to make me smile
And I knew if I had my chance that I could make those people dance
and maybe they'd be happy for a while.

But February made me shiver With every paper I'd deliver
Bad news on the doorstep
I couldn't take one more step

I can't remember if I cried
When I read about his widowed bride
But something touched me deep inside
The day the Music Died

So bye bye Miss American Pie
Drove my chevy to the levee
But the levee was dry
And them good old boys were drinking whiskey and rye
Singin' this'll be the day that I die,
this'll be the day that I die.

Did you write the book of love
And do you have faith in God above?
If the Bible tells you so.
Do you believe in Rock 'n Roll?
Can music save your mortal soul?
And can you teach me how to dance real slow?

Well, I know that you're in love with him
'cause I saw you dancin' in the gym
You both kicked off your shoes
Man, I dig those rythmny blues

I was a lonely teenage broncin' buck
With a pink carnation and a pickup truck.
But I knew I was out of luck
The day the music died

I stared singin' bye bye Miss American Pie
Drove my chevy to the levee
But the levee was dry
And them good old boys were drinking whiskey and rye
Singin' this'll be the day that I die
This'll be the day that I die.

Now for ten years we've been on our own
And moss grows fat on a rollin' stone
But that's not how it used to be
When the jester sang for the King and Queen
In a coat he borrowed from James Dean
And a voice that came from you and me

Oh, and while the King was looking down
The jester stole his thorny crown
The courtroom was adjourned
No verdict was returned
And while Lennon read a book of Marx
The court kept practice in the park
And we sang dirges in the dark
The day the Music Died.

We were singing bye bye Miss American Pie
Drove my chevy to the levee
But the levee was dry
Them good old boys were drinking whiskey and rye
Singin' this'll be the day that I die
This'll be the day that I die.

Helter–Skelter in a summer swelter
The Byrds flew off with a fallout shelter
Eight Miles High and falling fast
It landed foul out on the grass
The players tried for a forward pass
But the jester's on the sidelines in a cast

Now the half–time air was sweet perfume
While the sargeants played a marching tune
We all got up to dance
But we never got the chance
'cause the players tried to take the field
The marching band refused to yield
Do you recall what was reveiled
the day the Music Died?

We stared singing bye bye Miss American Pie
Drove my chevy to the levee
But the levee was dry
Them good old boys were drinking whiskey and rye
Singin' this'll be the day that I die
This'll be the day that I die.

Oh, and there we were all in one place
A generation Lost in Space
With no time left to start again
So come on, Jack be nimble
Jack be quick
Jack Flash sat on a candlestick
'cause fire is the Devil's only friend

Oh, and as I watched him on the stage
My hands were clenched in fists of rage
No angel born in hell
Could break that Satan's spell
And as the flames climbed high into the night
To light the sacrifical rite
I saw Satan laughing with delight
The day the Music Died

He was singing bye bye Miss American Pie
Drove my chevy to the levee
But the levee was dry
Them good old boys were drinking whiskey and rye
Singin' this'll be the day that I die
This'll be the day that I die.

I met a girl who sang the blues
And I asked her for some happy news
But she just smiled and turned away
I went down to the sacred store
Where I'd heard the music years before
But the man there said the music woudn't play

And in the streets the children screamed
The lovers cried, and the poets dreamed
But not a word was spoken
The Church bells all were broken
And three men I admire most
The Father, Son and the Holy Ghost
They caught the last train for the coast
The Day the Music Died.

And they were singing bye bye Miss American Pie
Drove my chevy to the levee
But the levee was dry
Them good old boys were drinking whiskey and rye
Singin' this'll be the day that I die
This'll be the day that I die.

They were singing bye bye Miss American Pie
Drove my chevy to the levee
But the levee was dry
Them good old boys were drinking whiskey and rye
Singin' this'll be the day that I die
This'll be the day that I die. 
    
    

—Don McLean

The Rose

Some say love, it is a river
that drowns the tender reed
Some say love, it is a razor
that leaves your soul to bleed
Some say love, it is a hunger
an endless aching need
I say love, it is a flower,
and you it's only seed

It's the heart, afraid of breaking
that never learns to dance
It's the dream, afraid of waking,
that never takes a chance
It's the one who won't be taken,
who cannot seem to give
And the soul, afraid of dyin',
that never learns to live

When the night has been too lonely,
and the road has been too long
And you think that love is only for the lucky and the strong
Just remember in the winter far beneath the bitter snows,
Lies the seed, that with the sun's love, in the spring becomes The
Rose. 
    
    

—Amanda McBroom

A Hard Rain's A-Gonna Fall

Oh, where have you been, my blue–eyed son?
Oh, where have you been, my darling young one?
I've stumbled on the side of twelve misty mountains,
I've walked and I've crawled on six crooked highways,
I've stepped in the middle of seven sad forests,
I've been out in front of a dozen dead oceans,
I've been ten thousand miles in the mouth of a graveyard,
And it's a hard, and it's a hard, it's a hard, and it's a hard,
And it's a hard rain's a–gonna fall.

Oh, what did you see, my blue–eyed son?
Oh, what did you see, my darling young one?
I saw a newborn baby with wild wolves all around it
I saw a highway of diamonds with nobody on it,
I saw a black branch with blood that kept drippin',
I saw a room full of men with their hammers a–bleedin',
I saw a white ladder all covered with water,
I saw ten thousand talkers whose tongues were all broken,
I saw guns and sharp swords in the hands of young children,
And it's a hard, and it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard,
And it's a hard rain's a–gonna fall.

And what did you hear, my blue–eyed son?
And what did you hear, my darling young one?
I heard the sound of a thunder, it roared out a warnin',
Heard the roar of a wave that could drown the whole world,
Heard one hundred drummers whose hands were a–blazin',
Heard ten thousand whisperin' and nobody listenin',
Heard one person starve, I heard many people laughin',
Heard the song of a poet who died in the gutter,
Heard the sound of a clown who cried in the alley,
And it's a hard, and it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard,
And it's a hard rain's a–gonna fall.

Oh, who did you meet, my blue–eyed son?
Who did you meet, my darling young one?
I met a young child beside a dead pony,
I met a white man who walked a black dog,
I met a young woman whose body was burning,
I met a young girl, she gave me a rainbow,
I met one man who was wounded in love,
I met another man who was wounded with hatred,
And it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard,
It's a hard rain's a–gonna fall.

Oh, what'll you do now, my blue–eyed son?
Oh, what'll you do now, my darling young one?
I'm a–goin' back out 'fore the rain starts a–fallin',
I'll walk to the depths of the deepest black forest,
Where the people are many and their hands are all empty,
Where the pellets of poison are flooding their waters,
Where the home in the valley meets the damp dirty prison,
Where the executioner's face is always well hidden,
Where hunger is ugly, where souls are forgotten,
Where black is the color, where none is the number,
And I'll tell it and think it and speak it and breathe it,
And reflect it from the mountain so all souls can see it,
Then I'll stand on the ocean until I start sinkin',
But I'll know my song well before I start singin',
And it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard,
It's a hard rain's a–gonna fall. 
    
    

—Bob Dylan

The Lonesome Death of Hattie Carroll

William Zanzinger killed poor Hattie Carroll
With a cane that he twirled around his diamond ring finger
At a Baltimore hotel society gath'rin'.
And the cops were called in and his weapon took from him
As they rode him in custody down to the station
And booked William Zanzinger for first–degree murder.
But you who philosophize disgrace and criticize all fears,
Take the rag away from your face.
Now ain't the time for your tears.

William Zanzinger, who at twenty–four years
Owns a tobacco farm of six hundred acres
With rich wealthy parents who provide and protect him
And high office relations in the politics of Maryland,
Reacted to his deed with a shrug of his shoulders
And swear words and sneering, and his tongue it was snarling,
In a matter of minutes on bail was out walking.
But you who philosophize disgrace and criticize all fears,
Take the rag away from your face.
Now ain't the time for your tears.

Hattie Carroll was a maid of the kitchen.
She was fifty–one years old and gave birth to ten children
Who carried the dishes and took out the garbage
And never sat once at the head of the table
And didn't even talk to the people at the table
Who just cleaned up all the food from the table
And emptied the ashtrays on a whole other level,
Got killed by a blow, lay slain by a cane
That sailed through the air and came down through the room,
Doomed and determined to destroy all the gentle.
And she never done nothing to William Zanzinger.
But you who philosophize disgrace and criticize all fears,
Take the rag away from your face.
Now ain't the time for your tears.

In the courtroom of honor, the judge pounded his gavel
To show that all's equal and that the courts are on the level
And that the strings in the books ain't pulled and persuaded
And that even the nobles get properly handled
Once that the cops have chased after and caught 'em
And that the ladder of law has no top and no bottom,
Stared at the person who killed for no reason
Who just happened to be feelin' that way without warnin'.
And he spoke through his cloak, most deep and distinguished,
And handed out strongly, for penalty and repentance,
William Zanzinger with a six–month sentence.
Oh, but you who philosophize disgrace and criticize all fears,
Bury the rag deep in your face
For now's the time for your tears. 
    
    

—Bob Dylan

Banks of Marble

I've travelled across this country
From shore to shining shore
And it really made me wonder
All the things I heard and saw

I saw my fellow seaman,
Standing idly by the shore
And I heard his bosses saying,
Got no work for him no more

Chorus

But the banks are made of marble
With a guard at every door
And the vaults are stuffed with silver
That we all have sweated for

I have seen the weary farmer
Just a plowing sod and loam
And I've seen the auction hammer
Beating down his home

Chorus

I've seen the weary miner,
Sweeping coal dust from his back
And I heard his children crying
Got no coal to heat our shack

Chorus (new verse)

I've seen my sisters working
Two jobs in every day
For low wages in the factory,
And at home she gets no pay

Chorus

Seen my sisters and brothers
Working throughout this mighty land
And I swore we'd get together
And united make a stand

Last Chorus

Then we'd own those banks of marble
With no guard at every door
And we'd share those vaults of silver
That we all have sweated for
And we'd share those vaults of silver
That we all have sweated for! 
    
    

—Les Rice

Richard Corey

WHENEVER Richard Cory went down town,
We people on the pavement looked at him:
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean favored, and imperially slim.

And he was always quietly arrayed,
And he was always human when he talked;
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
"Good–morning," and he glittered when he walked.

And he was rich—yes, richer than a king,
And admirably schooled in every grace:
In fine, we thought that he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place.

So on we worked, and waited for the light,
And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet through his head. 
    
    

—Edwin Arlington Robinson

The Rising of the Moon

"OH, THEN tell me, Shawn O'Farrall,
Tell me why you hurry so?"
"Hush, ma bouchal, hush and listen;"
And his cheeks were all a–glow:
"I bear orders from the Captain—
Get you ready quick and soon;
For the pikes must be together
At the Rising of the Moon."

"Oh, then tell me, Shawn O'Farrall
Where the gathering is to be?"
"In the oul' spot by the river
Right well known to you and me;
One word more—for signal token
Whistle up the marching tune,
With your pike upon your shoulder,
At the Rising of the Moon."

Out from many a mud–wall cabin
Eyes were watching through the night:
Many a manly chest was throbbing
For the blessed warning light;
Murmurs passed along the valley
Like the Banshee's lonely croon,
And a thousand blades were flashing
At the Rising of the Moon.

There, beside the singing river,
That dark mass of men were seen—
Far above the shining weapons
Hung their own beloved green.
Death to every foe and traitor!
Forward! strike the marching tune,
And hurrah, my boys, for freedom!
'Tis the Rising of the Moon."

Well they fought for poor Old Ireland,
And full bitter was their fate;
(Oh! what glorious pride and sorrow
Fill the name of Ninety–Eight!)
Yet, thank God, e'en still are beating
Hearts in manhood's burning noon,
Who would follow in their footsteps
At the Rising of the Moon. 
    
    

—Anonymous

The Song of Wandering Aengus

I WENT out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth–like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.

When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire a–flame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And someone called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.

Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done,
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun. 
    
    

—William Butler Yeats

Men of Harlech

Men of Harlech, march to glory, Victory is hov'ring o'er ye,
Bright eyed freedom stands before ye, Hear ye not her call?
At your sloth she seems to wonder, Rend the sluggish bonds asunder,
Let the war cry's deaf'ning thunder, Ev'ry foe appal.

Echoes loudly waking, Hill and valley shaking;
'Till the sound spreads wide around, The Saxon's courage breaking;
Your foes on ev'ry side assailing, Forward press with heart
unfailing,
Till invaders learn with quailing, Cambria ne'er can yield.

Thou who noble Cambria wrongest, Know that freedom's cause is
strongest
Freedom's courage lasts the longest, Ending but with death!
Freedom countless hosts can scatter, Freedom stoutest mail can
shatter,
Freedom thickest walls can batter, Fate is in her breath.

See they now are flying! Dead are heaped with dying!
Over might has triumphed right, Our land to foes denying;
Upon their soil we never sought them, Love of conquest hither brought
them,
But this lesson we have taught them, Cambria ne'er can yield 
    
    

—John Oxenford

The Horse May Sing!

"There was once a king," he began in a Dutch accent, "who had a horse whom
he loved dearly. One day, when he was condemning prisoners to death, one of the prisoners
stepped out of the line and spoke.

"'Your majesty, I beg you to hold,' he said, 'for I have special powers and,
given one year, can teach your horse to sing!'

"The king was intrigued, and granted him a stay of execution for one year.
'But if, after one year, the horse can not sing,' he warned, 'the fate that will befall you
is far worse and more painful than the quick and merciful death you would have had
today.'

"As the prisoner was led off, one of the condemned whispered to him. 'You
have only postponed the inevitable,' he said, 'and will suffer a horrible death as a
result, for verily, you cannot teach a horse to sing.'

"'Perhaps you're right,' was the response, 'but I have a year. And in that
year, the king might die. The horse might die. I might die. And who knows… maybe the
horse will sing.'" 
    
    

—Anonymous

Turtles All the Way Down

After a lecture on cosmology and the structure of the solar system, William James was
accosted by a little old lady. "Your theory that the sun is the center of the solar system,
and the earth is a ball which rotates around it has a very convincing ring to it, Mr James, 
but it's wrong. I've a better theory," said the little old lady. 

"And what is that, Madam?" inquired James politely. 

"That we live on a crust of earth which is on the back of a giant turtle." 

Not wishing to demolish this absurd little theory by bringing to bear the masses of scientific 
evidence he had at his command, James decided to gently dissuade his opponent by making 
her see some of the inadequacies of her position. "If your theory is correct, madam," he 
asked, "what does this turtle stand on?" 

"You're a very clever man, Mr. James, and that's a very good question," replied the little 
old lady, "but I have an answer to it. And it is this: the first turtle stands on the back 
of a second, far larger turtle, who stands directly under him." 

"But what does this second turtle stand on?" persisted James patiently. 

To this the little old lady crowed triumphantly. "It's no use, Mr. James, — it's turtles 
all the way down."         
    
    

—Anonymous

Tam Lin

O I forbid you, maidens a'
That wear gowd on your hair
To come or gae by Carterhaugh
For young Tam–lin is there.

There's nane that gaes by Carterhaugh
But they leave him a wad;
Either their rings or green mantles
Or else their maidenhead.

Janet has kilted her green kirtle,
A little aboon her knee;
And she's broded up her yellow hair
A little aboon her bree;
And she's awa' to Carterhaugh
As fast as she can hie.

When she cam to Carterhaugh
Tam–lin was at the well
And there she fand his steed standing
But away was himsel.

She had na' pu'd a double rose
A rose but only tway,
Till up then started young Tam–lin,
Says, Lady, thou's pu' nae mae.

Why pu's thou the rose, Janet
And breaks thou the wand?
Or why comes thou to Carterhaugh
Withoutten my command?

Carterhaugh it is my ain,
My daddie gave it me;
I'll come and gang by Carterhaugh
And ask nae leave at thee.

Janet has kilted her green kirtle
A little aboon her knee,
And she has snooded her yellow hair,
A little aboon her bree,
And she is to her father's ha
As fast as she can hie.

Four and twenty ladies fair
Were playing at the ba'
And out then cam the fair Janet,
Ance the flower amang them a'

Four and twenty ladies fair
Were playing at the chess,
And out then cam the fair Janet,
As green as onie glass.    
    
    

—Traditional

The Road Goes Ever On

The Road goes ever on and on
    Down from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone,
    And I must follow, if I can,
Pursuing it with eager feet,
    Until it joins some larger way
Where many paths and errands meet.
    And whither then? I cannot say. 
    
    

—J.R.R. Tolkien

Death be not Proud

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 pictures 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 art 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. 
    
    

—John Donne

Lord Franklin

I was homeward bound one night on the deep, 
Swinging in my hammock I fell asleep, 
I dreamed a dream and I thought it true 
Concerning Franklin and his gallant crew. 

I dreamed we neared the English shore, 
I heard a lady weep and deplore, 
She wept aloud and she seemed to say: 
Alas, that my husband is so long away. 

With a hundred seamen he sailed away 
To the frozen ocean in the month of May, 
To seek the passage around the Pole, 
Where we poor seamen do sometimes roll. 

Through cruel hardships they vainly strove, 
Their ship on mountains of ice was drove, 
Where the Eskimo in his skin canoe 
Was the only ones that ever came through. 

Now my sad burden it gives me pain, 
For my long–lost Franklin I'd cross the main. 
Ten thousand pounds I would freely give 
To say on earth that my Franklin do live. 

In Baffin's Bay where the whalefish blow, 
The fate of Franklin no man may know,
The tale of Franklin no tongue can tell, 
Lord Franklin along with his sailors do dwell. 
    
    

—Traditional

Northwest Passage

Chorus

Ah, for just one time I would take the Northwest Passage
To find the hand of Franklin reaching for the Beaufort Sea;
Tracing one warm line through a land so wild and savage
And make a Northwest Passage to the sea.

Westward from the Davis Strait 'tis there 'twas said to lie
The sea route to the Orient for which so many died;
Seeking gold and glory, leaving weathered, broken bones
And a long–forgotten lonely cairn of stones.

Three centuries thereafter, I take passage overland
In the footsteps of brave Kelso, where his "sea of flowers" began
Watching cities rise before me, then behind me sink again
This tardiest explorer, driving hard across the plain.

And through the night, behind the wheel, the mileage clicking west
I think upon Mackenzie, David Thompson and the rest
Who cracked the mountain ramparts and did show a path for me
To race the roaring Fraser to the sea.

How then am I so different from the first men through this way?
Like them, I left a settled life, I threw it all away.
To seek a Northwest Passage at the call of many men
To find there but the road back home again.

Unpublished additional verse:

And if should be I come again to loved ones left at home,
Put the journals on the mantle, shake the frost out of my bones,
Making memories of the passage, only memories after all,
And hardships there the hardest to recall. 
    
    

—Stan Rogers

Barbara Allen

In Scarlet town, where I was born,
There was a fair maid dwellin',
Made every youth cry Well–a–day!
Her name was Barbara Allen.

All in the merry month of May,
When the green buds they were swellin',
Young Jemmy Grove on his death–bed lay,
For love of Barbara Allen

He sent his men down to her then,
To the town where she was dwelling:
"O haste and come to my master dear,
Gin ye be Barbara Allen."

So slowly, slowly rase she up,
And slowly she came nigh him,
And when she drew the curtains by—
"Young man, I think you're dyin'."

"O it's I am sick and very very sick,
And 'tis a' for Barbara Allen." —
"O the better for me ye'se never be,
Tho your heart's blood were a–spillin'!.

"O dinna ye mind, young man," said she,
"When the red wine ye were fillin',
That ye made the healths gae round and round,
And slighted Barbara Allen?"

He turned his face unto the wall,
And death was with him dealin':
"Adieu, adieu, my dear friends all,
And be kind to Barbara Allen!"

And slowly, slowly raise she up,
And slowly, slowly left him,
And sighing said she could not stay,
Since death of life had reft him.

As she was walkin o'er the fields
She heard the dead–bell knellin',
And every jow that the dead–bell geid,
Cried, "Woe to Barbara Allen!"

"O mother, mother, make my bed!
O make it saft and narrow:
My love has died for me today,
I'll die for him to–morrow."

"Farewell", she said, "ye virgins all,
And shun the fault I fell in:
Henceforward take warning by the fall
Of cruel Barbara Allen." 
    
    

—Anonymous

Who By fire

And who by fire,
who by water,
who in the sunshine,
who in the night time,
who by high ordeal,
who by common trial,
who in your merry merry month of may,
who by very slow decay
and who shall I say is calling?

And who in her lonely slip,
who by barbiturate,
who in these realms of love,
who by something blunt,
and who by avalanche,
who by powder,
who for his greed,
who for his hunger,
and who shall I say is calling?

And who by brave assent,
who by accident,
who in solitude,
who in this mirror,
who by his lady's command,
who by his own hand,
who in mortal chains,
who in power,
and who shall I say is calling? 
    
    

—Leonard Cohen

Sir Patrick Spens

The King sits in Dunfermline town,
Drinking the blood–red wine;
"O where shall I get a skeely skipper
To sail this ship or mine?"

Then up and spake an eldern knight,
Sat at the King's right knee:
"Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor
That ever sailed the sea."

The King has written a broad letter,
And sealed it with his hand,
And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens,
Was walking on the strand.

"To Noroway, to Noroway,
To Noroway o'er the foam;
The King's daughter of Noroway,
'Tis thou must fetch her home."

The first line that Sir Patrick read,
A loud laugh laughed he;
The next line that Sir Patrick read,
The tear blinded his ee.

"O who is this has done this deed,
Has told the King of me,
To send us out at this time of the year,
To sail upon the sea?

"Be it wind, be it wet, be it hail, be it sleet,
Our ship must sail the foam;
The king's daughter of Noroway,
'Tis we must fetch her home."

They hoisted their sails on Monenday morn,
With all the speed they may;
And they have landed in Noroway
Upon a Wodensday

They had not been a week, a week,
In Noroway but twae,
When that the lords of Noroway
Began aloud to say, —

"Ye Scottishmen spend all our King's gowd,
And all our Queenis fee."
"Ye lie, ye lie, ye liars loud!
So loud I hear ye lie.

"For I brought as much of the white monie
As gane my men and me,
And a half–fou of the good red gowd
Out o'er the sea with me.

"Make ready, make ready, my merry men all,
Our good ship sails the morn."
"Now, ever alack, my master dear
I fear a deadly storm.

"I saw the new moon late yestreen
With the old moon in her arm;
And if we go to sea, master,
I fear we'll come to harm."

They had not sailed a league, a league,
A league but barely three,
When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud,
And gurly grew the sea.

The ankers brake and the top–masts lap,
It was such a deadly storm;
And the waves came o'er the broken ship
Till all her sides were torn.

"O where will I get a good sailor
Will take my helm in hand,
Till I get up to the tall top–mast
To see if I can spy land?"

"O here am I, a sailor good,
Will take the helm in hand,
Till you go up to the tall top–mast,
But I fear you'll ne'er spy land."

He had not gone a step, a step,
A step but barely ane,
When a bolt flew out of the good ship's side,
And the salt sea came in.

"Go fetch a web of the silken cloth,
Another of the twine,
And wap them into our good ship's side,
And let not the sea come in."

They fetched a web of the silken cloth,
Another of the twine,
And they wapp'd them into the good ship's side,
But still the sea came in.

O loth, both, were our good Scots lords
To wet their cork–heel'd shoon,
But long ere all the play was play'd
They wet their hats aboon.

And many was the feather–bed
That fluttered on the foam;
And many was the good lord's son
That never more came home.

The ladies wrang their fingers white,
The maidens tore their heair,
All for the sake of their true loves,
For them they'll see nae mair.

O lang, lang may the maidens sit
With their gold combs in their hair,
All waiting for their own dear loves,
For them they'll see nae mair.

O forty miles of Aberdeen,
'Tis fifty fathoms deep;
And there lies good Sir Patrick Spens,
With the Scots lords at his feet. 
    
    

—Anonymous

The Last of the Light Brigade

There were thirty million English who talked of England's might,
There were twenty broken troopers who lacked a bed for the night.
They had neither food nor money, they had neither service nor trade;
They were only shiftless soldiers, the last of the Light Brigade.

They felt that life was fleeting; they knew not that art was long,
That though they were dying of famine, they lived in deathless song.
They asked for a little money to keep the wolf from the door;
And the thirty million English sent twenty pounds and four!

They laid their heads together that were scarred and lined and grey;
Keen were the Russian sabres, but want was keener than they;
And an old Troop–Sergeant muttered, "Let us go to the man who writes
The things on Balaclava the kiddies at school recites."

They went without bands or colours, a regiment ten–file strong,
To look for the Master–singer who had crowned them all in his song;
And, waiting his servant's order, by the garden gate they stayed,
A desolate little cluster, the last of the Light Brigade.

They strove to stand to attention, to straighten the toil–bowed back;
They drilled on an empty stomach, the loose–knit files fell slack;
With stooping of weary shoulders, in garments tattered and frayed,
They shambled into his presence, the last of the Light Brigade.

The old Troop–Sergeant was spokesman, and "Beggin' your pardon," he said,
"You wrote o' the Light Brigade, sir. Here's all that isn't dead.
An' it's all come true what you wrote, sir, regardin' the mouth of hell;
For we're all of us nigh to the workhouse, an, we thought we'd call an' tell.

"No, thank you, we don't want food, sir; but couldn't you take an' write
A sort of 'to be continued' and 'see next page' o' the fight?
We think that someone has blundered, an' couldn't you tell 'em how?
You wrote we were heroes once, sir. Please, write we are starving now."

The poor little army departed, limping and lean and forlorn.
And the heart of the Master–singer grew hot with "the scorn of scorn."
And he wrote for them wonderful verses that swept the land like flame,
Till the fatted souls of the English were scourged with the thing called Shame.

O thirty million English that babble of England's might,
Behold there are twenty heroes who lack their food to–night;
Our children's children are lisping to "honour the charge they made—"
And we leave to the streets and the workhouse the charge of the Light Brigade! 
    
    

—Rudyard Kipling

The Music Crept By Us

I would like to remind
the management
that the drinks are watered
and the hat–check girl
has syphilis
and the band is composed
of former SS monsters
However since it is
New Year's Eve
and I have lip cancer
I will place my
paper hat on my
concussion and dance. 
    
    

—Leonard Cohen

The Ballad of Little Musgrave and Lady Barnard

As it fell out on a highe holye daye,
As many bee in the yeare,
When yong men and maides together do goe
Their masses and mattins to heare,

Little Musgrave came to the church door,
The priest was at the mass;
But he had more mind of the fine women,
Then he had of our Ladyes grace.

And some of them were clad in greene,
And others were clad in pall;
And then came in my lord Barnardes wife,
The fairest among them all.

Shee cast an eye on little Musgrave
As bright as the summer sunne:
O then bethought him little Musgrave,
This ladyes heart I have wonne.

Quoth she, I have loved thee, little Musgrave,
Full long and manye a daye.
So have I loved you, ladye faire,
Yet word I never durst saye.

I have a bower at Bucklesford–Bury,
Full daintilye bedight,
If thoult wend thither, my little Musgrave,
Thoust lig in mine armes all night.


Quoth hee, I thank yee, ladye faire,
This kindness yee shew to me;
And whether it be to my weale or woe,
This night will I lig with thee.

All this beheard a litle foot–page,
By his ladyes coach as he ranne:
Quoth he, thoughe I am my ladyes page,
Yet Ime my lord Barnardes manne.

My lord Barnard shall knowe of this,
Although I lose a limbe.
And ever whereas the bridges were broke,
He layd him downe to swimme.

Asleep or awake, thou lord Barnard,
As thou art a man of life,
Lo! this same night at Bucklesford–Bury
Litle Musgrave's in bed with thy wife.

If it be trew, thou litle foote–page,
This tale thou hast told to mee,
Then all my lands in Bucklesford–Bury
I freelye will give to thee.

But an it be a lye, thou litle foot–page,
This tale thou hast told to mee,
On the highest tree in Bucklesford–Bury
All hanged shalt thou bee.

Rise up, rise up, my merry men all,
And saddle me my good steede;
This night must I to Bucklesford–Bury;
God wott, I had never more neede.


Then some they whistled, and some they sang,
And some did loudlye saye,
Whenever lord Barnardes horne it blewe,
Awaye, Musgrave, away.

Methinkes I heare the throstle cocke,
Methinkes I heare the jay,
Methinkes I heare lord Barnards horne;
I would I were awaye.

Lye still, lye still, thou little Musgrave,
And huggle me from the cold;
For it is but some shephardes boye
A whistling his sheepe to the fold.

Is not thy hawke upon the pearche,
Thy horse eating corne and haye ?
And thou a gay lady within thine armes:
And wouldst thou be awaye ?

By this lord Barnard was come to the dore,
And lighted upon a stone:
And he pulled out three silver keyes,
And opened the dores eche one.

He lifted up the coverlett,
He lifted up the sheete;
How now, how now, thou little Musgrave,
Dost find my gaye ladye sweete ?

I find her sweete, quoth little Musgrave,
The more is my griefe and paine;
Ide gladlye give three hundred poundes
That I were on yonder plaine.

Arise, arise, thou little Musgrave,
And put thy cloathes nowe on,
It shall never be said in my countree,
That I killed a naked man.

I have two swordes in one scabbarde,
Full deare they cost my purse;
And thou shalt have the best of them,
And I will have the worse.

The first stroke that little Musgrave strucke,
He hurt lord Barnard sore,
The next stroke that lord Barnard strucke,
Little Musgrave never strucke more.

With that bespake the ladye faire,
In bed whereas she laye,
Althoughe thou art dead, my little Musgrave,
Yet for thee I will praye:

And wishe well to thy soule will I,

So long as I have life;
So will I not do for thee, Barnard,
Thoughe I am thy wedded wife.

He cut her pappes from off her brest;
Great pitye it was to see
The drops of this fair ladyes bloode
Run trickling downe her knee.

Wo worth, wo worth ye, my merrye men all,
You never were borne for my goode:
Why did you not offer to stay my hande,
When you sawe me wax so woode ?

For I have slaine the fairest sir knighte,
That ever rode on a steede;
So have I done the fairest lady,
That ever ware womans weede.

A grave, a grave, Lord Barnard cryde,
To putt these lovers in;
But lay my ladye o' the upper hande,
For she comes o' the better kin. 
    
    

—Anonymous

The Second Coming

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood–dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born? 
    
    

—William Butler Yeats

The Soldier

If I should die, think only this of me:
That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
A body of England's, breathing English air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.

And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven. 
    
    

—Rupert Brooke

Recompense

I have not heard lutes beckon me, nor the brazen bugles call,
But once in the dim of a haunted lea I heard the silence fall.
I have not heard the regal drum, nor seen the flags unfurled,
But I have watched the dragons come, fire–eyed, across the world.

I have not seen the horsemen fall before the hurtling host,
But I have paced a silent hall where each step waked a ghost.
I have not kissed the tiger–feet of a strange–eyed golden god,
But I have walked a city's street where no man else had trod.

I have not raised the canopies that shelter revelling kings,
But I have fled from crimson eyes and black unearthly wings.
I have not knelt outside the door to kiss a pallid queen,
But I have seen a ghostly shore that no man else has seen.

I have not seen the standards sweep from keep and castle wall,
But I have seen a woman leap from a dragon's crimson stall,
And I have heard strange surges boom that no man heard before,
And seen a strange black city loom on a mystic night–black shore.

And I have felt the sudden blow of a nameless wind's cold breath,
And watched the grisly pilgrims go that walk the roads of Death,
And I have seen black valleys gape, abysses in the gloom,
And I have fought the deathless Ape that guards the Doors of Doom.

I have not seen the face of Pan, nor mocked the Dryad's haste,
But I have trailed a dark–eyed Man across a windy waste.
I have not died as men may die, nor sin as men have sinned,
But I have reached a misty sky upon a granite wind. 
    
    

—Robert E. Howard

High Flight

Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of earth
And danced the skies on laughter–silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun–split clouds — and done a hundred things

You have not dreamed of — wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there
I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air.

Up, up the long delirious, burning blue,
I've topped the windswept heights with easy grace
Where never lark, or even eagle flew —
And, while with silent lifting mind I've trod
The high unsurpassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand and touched the face of God. 
    
    

—Pilot Officer John Gillespie Magee

Three Rings for the Elven Kings

Three Rings for the Elven–kings under the sky,
Seven for the Dwarf–lords in their halls of stone,
Nine for Mortal Men doomed to die,
One for the Dark Lord on his dark throne
In the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie.
One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them,
One Ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them
In the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie. 
    
    

—J.R.R. Tolkien

Desolation Row

They're selling postcards of the hanging
They're painting the passports brown
The beauty parlor is filled with sailors
The circus is in town
Here comes the blind commissioner
They've got him in a trance
One hand is tied to the tight–rope walker
The other is in his pants
And the riot squad they're restless
They need somewhere to go
As the Lady and I look out tonight
From Desolation Row

Cinderella, she seems so easy
"It takes one to know one," she smiles
And puts her hands in her back pockets
Bette Davis style
And in comes Romeo, he's moaning
"You Belong To Me I Believe"
And someone says, "You're in the wrong place, my friend
You better leave."
And the only sound that's left
After the ambulances go
Is Cinderella sweeping up
On Desolation Row

Now the moon is almost hidden
The stars are beginning to hide
The fortunetelling lady
Has even taken all her things inside
All except for Cain and Abel
And the hunchback of Notre Dame
Everybody is making love
Or else expecting rain
And the Good Samaritan, he's dressing
He's getting ready for the show
He's going to the carnival tonight
On Desolation Row

Now Ophelia, she's 'neath the window
For her I feel so afraid
On her twenty–second birthday
She already is an old maid
To her, death is quite romantic
She wears an iron vest
Her profession's her religion
Her sin is her lifelessness
And though her eyes are fixed upon
Noah's great rainbow
She spends her time peeking
Into Desolation Row

Einstein, disguised as Robin Hood
With his memories in a trunk
Passed this way an hour ago
With his friend, a jealous monk
He looked so immaculately frightful
As he bummed a cigarette
Then he went off sniffing drainpipes
And reciting the alphabet
Now you would not think to look at him
But he was famous long ago
For playing the electric violin
On Desolation Row

Dr. Filth, he keeps his world
Inside of a leather cup
But all his sexless patients
They're trying to blow it up
Now his nurse, some local loser
She's in charge of the cyanide hole
And she also keeps the cards that read
"Have Mercy On His Soul"
They all play on penny whistles
You can hear them blow
If you lean your head out far enough
From Desolation Row

Across the street they've nailed the curtains
They're getting ready for the feast
The Phantom of the Opera
A perfect image of a priest
They're spoonfeeding Casanova
To get him to feel more assured
Then they'll kill him with self–confidence
After poisoning him with words
And the Phantom's shouting to skinny girls
"Get Outta Here If You Don't Know
Casanova is just being punished for going
To Desolation Row"

Now at midnight all the agents
And the superhuman crew
Come out and round up everyone
That knows more than they do
Then they bring them to the factory
Where the heart–attack machine
Is strapped across their shoulders
And then the kerosene
Is brought down from the castles
By insurance men who go
Check to see that nobody is escaping
To Desolation Row

Praise be to Nero's Neptune
The Titanic sails at dawn
And everybody's shouting
"Which Side Are You On?"
And Ezra Pound and T. S. Eliot
Fighting in the captain's tower
While calypso singers laugh at them
And fishermen hold flowers
Between the windows of the sea
Where lovely mermaids flow
And nobody has to think too much
About Desolation Row

Yes, I received your letter yesterday
(About the time the door knob broke)
When you asked how I was doing
Was that some kind of joke?
All these people that you mention
Yes, I know them, they're quite lame
I had to rearrange their faces
And give them all another name
Right now I can't read too good
Don't send me no more letters no
Not unless you mail them
From Desolation Row 
    
    

—Bob Dylan

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

Whose woods these are I think I know,
His house is in the village though.
He will not see me stopping here,
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer,
To stop without a farmhouse near,
Between the woods and frozen lake,
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake,
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep,
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep. 
    
    

—Robert Frost

Recessional

God of our fathers, known of old,
Lord of our far–flung battle–line,
Beneath whose awful hand we hold
Dominion over palm and pine —
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget — lest we forget!

The tumult and the shouting dies;
The captains and the kings depart:
Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,
An humble and a contrite heart.
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget — lest we forget!

Far–called, our navies melt away;
On dune and headland sinks the fire:
Lo, all our pomp of yesterday
Is one with Nineveh and Tyre!
Judge of the Nations, spare us yet.
Lest we forget — lest we forget!

If, drunk with sight of power, we loose
Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe,
Such boastings as the Gentiles use,
Or lesser breeds without the Law —
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget — lest we forget!

For heathen heart that puts her trust
In reeking tube and iron shard,
All valiant dust that builds on dust,
And, guarding, calls not Thee to guard,
For frantic boast and foolish word —
The Mercy on Thy People, Lord! 
    
    

—Rudyard Kipling

From Address to The Corps of Cadets, West Point, May 12, 1962

As I was leaving the hotel this morning, a doorman asked me, "Where are you headed
for, General?" And when I replied, "West Point," he remarked, "Beautiful place. Have
you ever been there before?
          
          No human being could fail to be deeply moved by such a tribute as this.
Coming from a profession I have served so long, and a people I have loved so well,
it fills me with an emotion I cannot express. But this award is not intended primarily
to honor a personality, but to symbolize a great moral code—the code of conduct and
chivalry of those who guard this beloved land of culture and ancient descent, That is
the meaning of this medallion. For all eyes and for all time, it is an expression of the
ethics of the American soldier. That I should be integrated in this way with so noble
an ideal arouses a sense of pride and yet of humility which will be with me always....

          Duty—Honor—Country. Those three hallowed words reverently dictate what you
ought to be, what you can be, what you will be. They are your rallying points; to build
courage when courage seems to fail; to regain faith when there seems to be little
cause for faith; to create hope when hope becomes forlorn. Unhappily, I possess
neither that eloquence of diction, that poetry of imagination, nor that brilliance of
metaphor to tell you all that they mean. The unbelievers will say they are but words,
but a slogan, but a flamboyant phrase. Every pedant, every demagogue, every cynic,
every hypocrite, every troublemaker, and, I am sorry to say, some others of an entirely
different character, will try to downgrade them even to the extent of mockery and
ridicule. But these are some of the things they do. They build your basic character;
they mold you for your future roles as custodians of the nations defense; they make
you strong enough to know when you are weak, and brave enough to face yourself
when you are afraid. They teach you to be proud and unbending in honest failure, but
humble and gentle in success, not to substitute words for actions, not to seek the
path of comfort, but to face the stress and spur of difficulty and challenge; to learn to
stand up in the storm but to have compassion on those who fail; to master yourself
before you seek to master others; to have a heart that is clean, a goal that is high;
to learn to laugh yet never forget how to weep; to reach into the future yet never
neglect the past; to be serious yet never to take yourself too seriously; to be modest
so that you will remember the simplicity of true greatness, the open mind of true
wisdom, the meekness of true strength. They give you a temper of the will, a quality
of the imagination, a vigor of the emotions, a freshness of the deep springs of life, a
temperamental predominance of courage over timidity, an appetite for adventure over
love of ease. They create in your heart the sense of wonder, the unfailing hope of
what next, and the joy and inspiration of life. They teach you in this way to be an
officer and a gentleman.

          And what sort of soldiers are those you are to lead? Are they reliable, are they
brave, are they capable of victory? Their story is known to all of you; it is the story of
the American man—at—arms. My estimate of him was formed on the battlefield many
years ago, and has never changed. I regarded him then as I regard him now—as one of
the world's noblest figures, not only as one of the finest military characters, but also
as one of the most stainless. His name and tame are the birthright of every American
citizen. In his youth and strength, his love and loyalty, he gave all that mortality can
give. He needs no eulogy from me or from any other man. He was written his own
history and written it in red on his enemy's breast. But when I think of his patience
under adversity, of his courage under fire, and of his modesty in victory, I am filled
with an emotion of admiration I cannot put into words. He belongs to history as
furnishing one of the greatest examples of successful patriotism; he belongs to
posterity as the instructor of future generations in the principles of liberty and freedom;
he belongs to the present, to us, by his virtues and by his achievements. In twenty
campaigns, on a hundred battlefields, around a thousand campfires, I have witnessed
that enduring fortitude, that patriotic self–abnegation, and that invincible determination
which have carved his status in the hearts Of his people. From one end of the world to
the other he has drained deep the chalice of courage.

          As I listened to those songs of the glee club, in memory's eye I could see
those staggering columns of the First World War, bending under soggy packs, on many
a weary march from dripping dusk to drizzling dawn, slogging ankle deep through the
mire of shell–shocked roads, to form grimly for the attack, blue–lipped, covered with
sludge and mud, chilled by the wind and rain, driving home to their objective, and, for
many, to the judgment seat of God. I do not know the dignity of their birth but I do
know the glory of their death. They died unquestioning, uncomplaining, with faith in
their hearts, and on their lips the hope tat we would go on to victory. Always for
them—Duty—Honor Country; always their blood and sweat and tears as we sought the
way and the light and the truth.

          And twenty years after, on the other side of the globe, again the filth of murky
foxholes, the stench of ghostly trenches, the slime of dripping dugouts; those broiling
suns of relentless heat, those torrential rains of devastating storm, the loneliness and
utter desolation of jungle trails, the bitterness of long separation from those they loved
and cherished, the deadly pestilence of tropical disease, the horror of stricken areas of
war; their resolute and determined defense, their swift and sure attack, their indomitable
purpose, their complete and decisive victory—always victory through the bloody haze of
their last reverberating shot, the vision of gaunt, ghastly men reverently following your
password of Duty—Honor Country.

          The code which those words perpetrate embraces the highest moral laws and will
stand the test of any ethics or philosophies ever promulgated for the uplift of mankind.
Its requirements are for the things that are right, and its restraints arc from the things
that are wrong. The soldier, above all other men, is required to practice the greatest act
of religious training—sacrifice. In battle and in the face of danger and death, he discloses
those divine attributes which his Maker gave when He created man in His own image. No
physical courage and no brute instinct can take the place of the Divine help which alone
can sustain him. However horrible the incidents of war may be, the soldier who is called
upon to offer and to give his life for his country is the noblest development of mankind.

          You now face a new world—a world of change. The thrust into outer space of the
satellites, spheres and missiles marked the beginning of another epoch in the long story
of mankind—the chapter of the space age. In the five or more billions of years the scientists
tell us it has taken to form the earth, in the three or more billion years of development of
the human race, there has never been a greater, a more abrupt or staggering evolution.
We deal now not with things of this world alone, but with the illimitable distances and as
yet unfathomed mysteries of the universe. We are reaching out for a new and boundless
frontier. We speak in strange terms: of harnessing the cosmic energy; of making winds
and tides