Poetry PDF

1. Crossing the Bar  ====================   [ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/alfred-tennyson) Sunset and evening star, And one clear call for me! And may there be no moaning of the bar, When I put out to sea, But such a tide as moving seems asleep, Too full for s...

1. Crossing the Bar  ====================   [ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/alfred-tennyson) Sunset and evening star, And one clear call for me! And may there be no moaning of the bar, When I put out to sea, But such a tide as moving seems asleep, Too full for sound and foam, When that which drew from out the boundless deep Turns again home. Twilight and evening bell, And after that the dark! And may there be no sadness of farewell, When I embark; For tho\' from out our bourne of Time and Place The flood may bear me far, I hope to see my Pilot face to face When I have crost the bar. 2. Porphyria\'s Lover ===================== [ROBERT BROWNING](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/robert-browning) The rain set early in to-night, The sullen wind was soon awake, It tore the elm-tops down for spite, And did its worst to vex the lake: I listened with heart fit to break. When glided in Porphyria; straight She shut the cold out and the storm, And kneeled and made the cheerless grate Blaze up, and all the cottage warm; Which done, she rose, and from her form Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl, And laid her soiled gloves by, untied Her hat and let the damp hair fall, And, last, she sat down by my side And called me. When no voice replied, She put my arm about her waist, And made her smooth white shoulder bare, And all her yellow hair displaced, And, stooping, made my cheek lie there, And spread, o\'er all, her yellow hair, Murmuring how she loved me --- she Too weak, for all her heart\'s endeavour, To set its struggling passion free From pride, and vainer ties dissever, And give herself to me for ever. But passion sometimes would prevail, Nor could to-night\'s gay feast restrain A sudden thought of one so pale For love of her, and all in vain: So, she was come through wind and rain. Be sure I looked up at her eyes Happy and proud; at last I knew Porphyria worshipped me; surprise Made my heart swell, and still it grew While I debated what to do. That moment she was mine, mine, fair, Perfectly pure and good: I found A thing to do, and all her hair In one long yellow string I wound Three times her little throat around, And strangled her. No pain felt she; I am quite sure she felt no pain. As a shut bud that holds a bee, I warily oped her lids: again Laughed the blue eyes without a stain. And I untightened next the tress About her neck; her cheek once more Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss: I propped her head up as before, Only, this time my shoulder bore Her head, which droops upon it still: The smiling rosy little head, So glad it has its utmost will, That all it scorned at once is fled, And I, its love, am gained instead! Porphyria\'s love: she guessed not how Her darling one wish would be heard. And thus, we sit together now, And all night long we have not stirred, And yet God has not said a word! 3. Dover Beach ============== [MATTHEW ARNOLD](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/matthew-arnold) The sea is calm tonight. The tide is full, the moon lies fair Upon the straits; on the French coast the light Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand, Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay. Come to the window, sweet is the night-air! Only, from the long line of spray Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land, Listen! you hear the grating roar Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling, At their return, up the high strand, Begin, and cease, and then again begin, With tremulous cadence slow, and bring The eternal note of sadness in. Sophocles long ago Heard it on the Ægean, and it brought Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow Of human misery; we Find also in the sound a thought, Hearing it by this distant northern sea. The Sea of Faith Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled. But now I only hear Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar, Retreating, to the breath Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear And naked shingles of the world. Ah, love, let us be true To one another! for the world, which seems To lie before us like a land of dreams, So various, so beautiful, so new, Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain; And we are here as on a darkling plain Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight, Where ignorant armies clash by night. 4. The Cry of the Children ========================== [ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/elizabeth-barrett-browning) *\"Pheu pheu, ti prosderkesthe m ommasin, tekna;\"\ \[\[Alas, alas, why do you gaze at me with your eyes, my children.\]\]---Medea.* Do ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers, Ere the sorrow comes with years ? They are leaning their young heads against their mothers, --- And that cannot stop their tears. The young lambs are bleating in the meadows ; The young birds are chirping in the nest ; The young fawns are playing with the shadows ; The young flowers are blowing toward the west--- But the young, young children, O my brothers, They are weeping bitterly ! They are weeping in the playtime of the others, In the country of the free. Do you question the young children in the sorrow, Why their tears are falling so ? The old man may weep for his to-morrow Which is lost in Long Ago --- The old tree is leafless in the forest --- The old year is ending in the frost --- The old wound, if stricken, is the sorest --- The old hope is hardest to be lost : But the young, young children, O my brothers, Do you ask them why they stand Weeping sore before the bosoms of their mothers, In our happy Fatherland ? They look up with their pale and sunken faces, And their looks are sad to see, For the man\'s grief abhorrent, draws and presses Down the cheeks of infancy --- \"Your old earth,\" they say, \"is very dreary;\" \"Our young feet,\" they say, \"are very weak !\" Few paces have we taken, yet are weary--- Our grave-rest is very far to seek ! Ask the old why they weep, and not the children, For the outside earth is cold --- And we young ones stand without, in our bewildering, And the graves are for the old ! \"True,\" say the children, \"it may happen That we die before our time ! Little Alice died last year her grave is shapen Like a snowball, in the rime. We looked into the pit prepared to take her --- Was no room for any work in the close clay : From the sleep wherein she lieth none will wake her, Crying, \'Get up, little Alice ! it is day.\' If you listen by that grave, in sun and shower, With your ear down, little Alice never cries ; Could we see her face, be sure we should not know her, For the smile has time for growing in her eyes ,--- And merry go her moments, lulled and stilled in The shroud, by the kirk-chime ! It is good when it happens,\" say the children, \"That we die before our time !\" Alas, the wretched children ! they are seeking Death in life, as best to have ! They are binding up their hearts away from breaking, With a cerement from the grave. Go out, children, from the mine and from the city --- Sing out, children, as the little thrushes do --- Pluck you handfuls of the meadow-cowslips pretty Laugh aloud, to feel your fingers let them through ! But they answer, \" Are your cowslips of the meadows Like our weeds anear the mine ? Leave us quiet in the dark of the coal-shadows, From your pleasures fair and fine! \"For oh,\" say the children, \"we are weary, And we cannot run or leap --- If we cared for any meadows, it were merely To drop down in them and sleep. Our knees tremble sorely in the stooping --- We fall upon our faces, trying to go ; And, underneath our heavy eyelids drooping, The reddest flower would look as pale as snow. For, all day, we drag our burden tiring, Through the coal-dark, underground --- Or, all day, we drive the wheels of iron In the factories, round and round. \"For all day, the wheels are droning, turning, --- Their wind comes in our faces, --- Till our hearts turn, --- our heads, with pulses burning, And the walls turn in their places Turns the sky in the high window blank and reeling --- Turns the long light that droppeth down the wall, --- Turn the black flies that crawl along the ceiling --- All are turning, all the day, and we with all ! --- And all day, the iron wheels are droning ; And sometimes we could pray, \'O ye wheels,\' (breaking out in a mad moaning) \'Stop ! be silent for to-day ! \' \" Ay ! be silent ! Let them hear each other breathing For a moment, mouth to mouth --- Let them touch each other\'s hands, in a fresh wreathing Of their tender human youth ! Let them feel that this cold metallic motion Is not all the life God fashions or reveals --- Let them prove their inward souls against the notion That they live in you, or under you, O wheels ! --- Still, all day, the iron wheels go onward, As if Fate in each were stark ; And the children\'s souls, which God is calling sunward, Spin on blindly in the dark. Now tell the poor young children, O my brothers, To look up to Him and pray --- So the blessed One, who blesseth all the others, Will bless them another day. They answer, \" Who is God that He should hear us, While the rushing of the iron wheels is stirred ? When we sob aloud, the human creatures near us Pass by, hearing not, or answer not a word ! And we hear not (for the wheels in their resounding) Strangers speaking at the door : Is it likely God, with angels singing round Him, Hears our weeping any more ? \" Two words, indeed, of praying we remember ; And at midnight\'s hour of harm, --- \'Our Father,\' looking upward in the chamber, We say softly for a charm. We know no other words, except \'Our Father,\' And we think that, in some pause of angels\' song, God may pluck them with the silence sweet to gather, And hold both within His right hand which is strong. \'Our Father !\' If He heard us, He would surely (For they call Him good and mild) Answer, smiling down the steep world very purely, \'Come and rest with me, my child.\' \"But, no !\" say the children, weeping faster, \" He is speechless as a stone ; And they tell us, of His image is the master Who commands us to work on. Go to ! \" say the children,---\"up in Heaven, Dark, wheel-like, turning clouds are all we find ! Do not mock us ; grief has made us unbelieving --- We look up for God, but tears have made us blind.\" Do ye hear the children weeping and disproving, O my brothers, what ye preach ? For God\'s possible is taught by His world\'s loving --- And the children doubt of each. And well may the children weep before you ; They are weary ere they run ; They have never seen the sunshine, nor the glory Which is brighter than the sun : They know the grief of man, without its wisdom ; They sink in the despair, without its calm --- Are slaves, without the liberty in Christdom, --- Are martyrs, by the pang without the palm, --- Are worn, as if with age, yet unretrievingly No dear remembrance keep,--- Are orphans of the earthly love and heavenly : Let them weep ! let them weep ! They look up, with their pale and sunken faces, And their look is dread to see, For they think you see their angels in their places, With eyes meant for Deity ;--- \"How long,\" they say, \"how long, O cruel nation, Will you stand, to move the world, on a child\'s heart, --- Stifle down with a mailed heel its palpitation, And tread onward to your throne amid the mart ? Our blood splashes upward, O our tyrants, And your purple shews your path ; But the child\'s sob curseth deeper in the silence Than the strong man in his wrath !\" 5. Thou art indeed just, Lord ============================= [Hopkins ] Thou art indeed just, Lord, if I contend With thee; but, sir, so what I plead is just. Why do sinners' ways prosper? and why must Disappointment all I endeavour end? Wert thou my enemy, O thou my friend, How wouldst thou worse, I wonder, than thou dost Defeat, thwart me? Oh, the sots and thralls of lust Do in spare hours more thrive than I that spend, Sir, life upon thy cause. See, banks and brakes Now, leavèd how thick! lacèd they are again With fretty chervil, look, and fresh wind shakes Them; birds build---but not I build; no, but strain, Time's eunuch, and not breed one work that wakes. Mine, O thou lord of life, send my roots rain. 6. art ====== Thou art indeed just, Lord, if I contend With thee; but, sir, so what I plead is just. Why do sinners' ways prosper? and why must Disappointment all I endeavour end? Wert thou my enemy, O thou my friend, How wouldst thou worse, I wonder, than thou dost Defeat, thwart me? Oh, the sots and thralls of lust Do in spare hours more thrive than I that spend, Sir, life upon thy cause. See, banks and brakes Now, leavèd how thick! lacèd they are again With fretty chervil, look, and fresh wind shakes Them; birds build -- but not I build; no, but strain, Time's eunuch, and not breed one work that wakes. Mine, O thou lord of life, send my roots rain. 7. Requiescat ============= Tread lightly, she is near\ Under the snow,\ Speak gently, she can hear\ The daisies grow. All her bright golden hair\ Tarnished with rust,\ She that was young and fair\ Fallen to dust. Lily-like, white as snow,\ She hardly knew\ She was a woman, so\ Sweetly she grew. Coffin-board, heavy stone,\ Lie on her breast,\ I vex my heart alone\  She is at rest. Peace, Peace, she cannot hear\ Lyre or sonnet,\ All my life's buried here,\  Heap earth upon it.