Because I Could Not Stop For Death-Emily Dickinson

Because I could not stop for Death – He kindly stopped for me – The Carriage held but just Ourselves – And Immortality. 

We slowly drove – He knew no haste And I had put away My labor and my leisure too, For His Civility – 

We passed the School, where Children strove At Recess – in the Ring – We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain – We passed the Setting Sun – 

Or rather – He passed Us – The Dews drew quivering and Chill – For only Gossamer, my Gown – My Tippet – only Tulle – 

We paused before a House that seemed A Swelling of the Ground – The Roof was scarcely visible – The Cornice – in the Ground – 

Since then – 'tis Centuries – and yet Feels shorter than the Day I first surmised the Horses' Heads Were toward Eternity –

Introduction to Poetry-Billy Collins

I ask them to take a poemand hold it up to the lightlike a color slide or press an ear against its hive. I say drop a mouse into a poemand watch him probe his way out,or walk inside the poem's roomand feel the walls for a light switch. I want them to waterskiacross the surface of a poemwaving at the author's name on the shore. But all they want to dois tie the poem to a chair with ropeand torture a confession out of it. They begin beating it with a hoseto find out what it really means.

Did I Miss Anything?-Tom Wayman

Nothing. When we realized you weren’t herewe sat with our hands folded on our desksin silence, for the full two hours

Everything. I gave an exam worth 40 percent of the grade for this term and assigned some reading due today on which I’m about to hand out a quiz worth 50 percent

Nothing. None of the content of this coursehas value or meaningTake as many days off as you like:any activities we undertake as a classI assure you will not matter either to you or meand are without purpose

Everything. A few minutes after we began last time a shaft of light suddenly descended and an angel or other heavenly being appeared and revealed to us what each woman or man must do to attain divine wisdom in this life and the hereafter This is the last time the class will meet before we disperse to bring the good news to all people on earth.

Nothing. When you are not presenthow could something significant occur?

Everything. Contained in this classroom is a microcosm of human experience assembled for you to query and examine and ponder This is not the only place such an opportunity has been gathered

but it was one place

And you weren’t here

Lesson—Forrest Hamer

It was 1963 or 4, summer,and my father was driving our familyfrom Ft. Hood to North Carolina in our 56 Buick.We'd been hearing about Klan attacks, and we knew

Mississippi to be more dangerous than usual.Dark lay hanging from the trees the way moss did,and when it moaned light against the windowsthat night, my father pulled off the road to sleep.

Noisesthat usually woke me from rest afraid of monsterskept my father awake that night, too,and I lay in the quiet noticing him listen, learningthat he might not be able always to protect us

from everything and the creatures besides;perhaps not even from the fury suddenly loudthrough my body about his trip from Texasto settle us home before he would go away

to a place no place in the worldhe named Viet Nam. A boy needs a fatherwith him, I kept thinking, fixed against noisefrom the dark.

For My Daughter—David Ignatow

When I die choose a starand name it after methat you may knowI have not abandonedor forgotten you.You were such a star to me,following you through birthand childhood, my handin your hand.

When I diechoose a star and name itafter me so that I may shinedown on you, until you joinme in darkness and silencetogether.

To a Daughter Leaving Home—Linda Pastan

When I taught youat eight to ridea bicycle, loping alongbeside youas you wobbled awayon two round wheels,my own mouth roundingin surprise when you pulledahead down the curvedpath of the park,I kept waitingfor the thudof your crash as Isprinted to catch up,while you grewsmaller, more breakablewith distance,pumping, pumpingfor your life, screamingwith laughter,the hair flappingbehind you like ahandkerchief wavinggoodbye.

The Summer Day—Mary Oliver

Who made the world?Who made the swan, and the black bear?Who made the grasshopper?This grasshopper, I mean-the one who has flung herself out of the grass,the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.I don't know exactly what a prayer is.I do know how to pay attention, how to fall downinto the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,which is what I have been doing all day.Tell me, what else should I have done?Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?Tell me, what is it you plan to dowith your one wild and precious life?

The End and the Beginning—Wisława Szymborska

After every warsomeone has to clean up.Things won'tstraighten themselves up, after all.

Someone has to push the rubbleto the side of the road,so the corpse-filled wagonscan pass.

Someone has to get miredin scum and ashes,sofa springs,splintered glass,and bloody rags.

Someone has to drag in a girderto prop up a wall,Someone has to glaze a window,rehang a door.

Photogenic it's not,and takes years.All the cameras have leftfor another war.

We'll need the bridges back,and new railway stations.Sleeves will go raggedfrom rolling them up.

Someone, broom in hand,still recalls the way it was.Someone else listensand nods with unsevered head.But already there are those nearbystarting to mill aboutwho will find it dull.

From out of the bushessometimes someone still unearthsrusted-out argumentsand carries them to the garbage pile.

Those who knewwhat was going on heremust make way forthose who know little.And less than little.And finally as little as nothing.

In the grass that has overgrowncauses and effects,someone must be stretched outblade of grass in his mouthgazing at the clouds.

In Flanders Fields-John McCrae

In Flanders fields the poppies blowBetween the crosses, row on row,That mark our place: and in the skyThe larks still bravely singing flyScarce 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 lieIn Flanders fields!Take up our quarrel with the foeTo you, from failing hands, we throwThe torch: be yours to hold it highIf ye break faith with us who die,We shall not sleep, though poppies growIn Flanders fields

(Composed at the battlefront on May 3, 1915 during the second battle of Ypres, Belgium)

The Tyger-William Blake

Tyger Tyger, burning bright, In the forests of the night; What immortal hand or eye, Could frame thy fearful symmetry? 

In what distant deeps or skies. Burnt the fire of thine eyes? On what wings dare he aspire? What the hand, dare seize the fire? 

And what shoulder, & what art, Could twist the sinews of thy heart? And when thy heart began to beat, What dread hand? & what dread feet? 

What the hammer? what the chain, In what furnace was thy brain? What the anvil? what dread grasp, Dare its deadly terrors clasp! 

When the stars threw down their spears And water'd heaven with their tears: Did he smile his work to see? Did he who made the Lamb make thee? 

Tyger Tyger burning bright, In the forests of the night: What immortal hand or eye, Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

The Lamb-William Blake

Little Lamb who made thee          Dost thou know who made thee? Gave thee life & bid thee feedBy the stream & o'er the mead; Gave thee clothing of delight, Softest clothing wooly bright; Gave thee such a tender voice, Making all the vales rejoice!          Little Lamb who made thee          Dost thou know who made thee? 

         Little Lamb I'll tell thee,          Little Lamb I'll tell thee!He is called by thy name, For he calls himself a Lamb: He is meek & he is mild, He became a little child: I a child & thou a lamb, We are called by his name.          Little Lamb God bless thee.          Little Lamb God bless thee.

A Red, Red Rose-Robert Burns

O my Love is like a red, red rose    That’s newly sprung in June; O my Love is like the melody    That’s sweetly played in tune. 

So fair art thou, my bonnie lass,    So deep in love am I; And I will love thee still, my dear,    Till all the sea’s gone dry. 

Till all the sea’s gone dry, my dear,    And the rocks melt wi’ the sun; I will love thee still, my dear,    While the sands o’ life shall run. 

And fare thee well, my only love!    And fare thee well awhile! And I will come again, my love,    Though it were ten thousand mile.

The Death of Santa Claus—Charles Harper Webb

He's had the chest pains for weeks,but doctors don't make housecalls to the North Pole,

he's let his Blue Cross lapse,blood tests make him faint,hospital gown always flap

open, waiting rooms upsethis stomach, and it's onlyindigestion anyway, he thinks,

until, feeding the reindeer,he feels as if a monster fisthas grabbed his heart and won't

stop squeezing. He can'tbreathe, and the beautiful whiteworld he loves goes black,

and he drops on his jelly bellyin the snow and Mrs. Claustears out of the toy factory

wailing, and the elves wringtheir little hands, and Rudolph'snose blinks like a sad ambulance

light, and in a tract housein Houston, Texas, I'm 8,telling my mom that stupid

kids at school say Santa's a bigfake, and she sits with meon our purple-flowered couch,

and takes my hand, tearsin her throat, the terriblenews rising in her eyes.

Suicide in the Trenches-S. Sassoon

I knew a simple soldier boyWho grinned at life in empty joy,Slept soundly through the lonesome dark,And whistled early with the lark.

In winter trenches, cowed and glum,With crumps and lice and lack of rum,He put a bullet through his brain.No one spoke of him again.

You smug-faced crowds with kindling eyeWho cheer when soldier lads march by,Sneak home and pray you'll never knowThe hell where youth and laughter go.

Richard Cory-E.A. Robinson

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 everythingTo 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.

Amazing Grace-John Newton

Amazing grace! How sweet the soundThat saved a wretch like me!I once was lost, but now am found;Was blind, but now I see.

’Twas grace that taught my heart to fear,And grace my fears relieved;How precious did that grace appearThe hour I first believed.

Through many dangers, toils and snares,I have already come;’Tis grace hath brought me safe thus far,And grace will lead me home.

The Lord has promised good to me,His Word my hope secures;He will my Shield and Portion be,As long as life endures.

Yea, when this flesh and heart shall fail,And mortal life shall cease,I shall possess, within the veil,A life of joy and peace.

The earth shall soon dissolve like snow,The sun forbear to shine;But God, who called me here below,Will be forever mine.

When we’ve been there ten thousand years,Bright shining as the sun,We’ve no less days to sing God’s praiseThan when we’d first begun.

Sonnet 97-William Shakespeare

How like a winter hath my absence beenFrom thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen!What old December’s bareness everywhere!

And yet this time removed was summer’s time,The teeming autumn big with rich increase,Bearing the wanton burthen of the prime,Like widowed wombs after their lords' decease.

Yet this abundant issue seemed to meBut hope of orphans, and unfathered fruit.For summer and his pleasures wait on thee,And thou away, the very birds are mute.

Or if they sing, ’tis with so dull a cheerThat leaves look pale, dreading the winter’s near.

Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night-Dylan Thomas

Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rage at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light.Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night.Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light.Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night.Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light.And you, my father, there on the sad height, Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Somewhere I Have Never Travelled-e.e. cummings

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyondany experience, your eyes have their silence:in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose methough i have closed myself as fingers,you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens(touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i andmy life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,as when the heart of this flower imaginesthe snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equalsthe power of your intense fragility: whose texture compels me with the color of its countries,rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closesand opens; only something in me understandsthe voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands

The Lanyard - by Billy Collins

The other day I was ricocheting slowlyoff the blue walls of this room,moving as if underwater from typewriter to piano,from bookshelf to an envelope lying on the floor,when I found myself in the L section of the dictionarywhere my eyes fell upon the word lanyard.

No cookie nibbled by a French novelistcould send one into the past more suddenly—a past where I sat at a workbench at a campby a deep Adirondack lakelearning how to braid long thin plastic stripsinto a lanyard, a gift for my mother.

I had never seen anyone use a lanyardor wear one, if that’s what you did with them,but that did not keep me from crossingstrand over strand again and againuntil I had made a boxyred and white lanyard for my mother.

She gave me life and milk from her breasts,and I gave her a lanyard.She nursed me in many a sick room,lifted spoons of medicine to my lips,laid cold face-cloths on my forehead,and then led me out into the airy light

and taught me to walk and swim,and I, in turn, presented her with a lanyard.Here are thousands of meals, she said,and here is clothing and a good education.And here is your lanyard, I replied,which I made with a little help from a counselor.

Here is a breathing body and a beating heart,strong legs, bones and teeth,and two clear eyes to read the world, she whispered,and here, I said, is the lanyard I made at camp.And here, I wish to say to her now,is a smaller gift—not the worn truth

that you can never repay your mother,but the rueful admission that when she tookthe two-tone lanyard from my hand,I was as sure as a boy could bethat this useless, worthless thing I woveout of boredom would be enough to make us even.

She Walks in Beauty-George Gordon Byron, 1788 - 1824

She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies;And all that’s best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes:Thus mellowed to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less, Had half impaired the nameless graceWhich waves in every raven tress, Or softly lightens o’er her face;Where thoughts serenely sweet express How pure, how dear their dwelling place.

And on that cheek, and o’er that brow, So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,The smiles that win, the tints that glow, But tell of days in goodness spent,A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent!

Brown Penny-William Butler Yeats

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.

To A Sad Daughter-Michael Ondaatje

All night long the hockey picturesgaze down at yousleeping in your tracksuit.Belligerent goalies are your ideal.Threats of being tradedcuts and wounds--all this pleases you.O my god! you say at breakfastreading the sports page over the Alpenas another player breaks his ankleor assaults the coach.

When I thought of daughtersI wasn't expecting thisbut I like this more.I like all your faultseven your purple moodswhen you retreat from everyoneto sit in bed under a quilt.And when I say 'like'I mean of course 'love'but that embarrasses you.You who feel superior to black and white movies(coaxed for hours to see Casablanca)though you were movedby Creature from the Black Lagoon.

One day I'll come swimmingbeside your ship or someone willand if you hear the sirenlisten to it. For if you close your earsonly nothing happens. You will never change.

I don't care if you riskyour life to angry goaliescreatures with webbed feet.You can enter their caves and castlestheir glass laboratories. Justdon't be fooled by anyone but yourself.

This is the first lecture I've given you.You're 'sweet sixteen' you said.I'd rather be your closest friendthan your father. I'm not good at adviceyou know that, but ride

the ceremoniesuntil they grow dark.

Sometimes you are so busydiscovering your friendsI ache with loss--but that is greed.And sometimes I've goneinto my purple worldand lost you.

One afternoon I steppedinto your room. You were sittingat the desk where I now write this.Forsythia outside the windowand sun spilled over youlike a thick yellow miracleas if another planetwas coaxing you out of the house--all those possible worlds!--and you, meanwhile, busy with mathematics.

I cannot look at forsythia nowwithout loss, or joy for you.You step delicatelyinto the wild worldand your real prize will bethe frantic search.Want everything. If you break,break going out, not in.How you live your life I don't carebut I'll sell my arms for you,hold your secrets forever.

If I speak of deathwhich you fear now, greatly,it is without answers.except that eachone we know isin our blood.Don't recall graves.Memory is permanent.Remember the afternoon'syellow suburban annunciation.Your goaliein his frightening maskdreams perhapsof gentleness. 

O CAPTAIN! My Captain!-Walt Whitman

O 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.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;Rise up--for you the flag is flung--for you the bugle trills; 10For 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.

My 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; 20Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!But I, with mournful tread,Walk the deck my Captain lies,Fallen cold and dead. 

“If”-Rudyard Kipling

If you can keep your head when all about youAre losing theirs and blaming it on you; If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,But make allowance for their doubting too:If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,Or being hated don't give way to hating,And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise; 

If you can dream- -and not make dreams your master; If you can think- -and not make thoughts your aim,If you can meet with Triumph and DisasterAnd treat those two impostors just the same:.If you can bear to hear the truth you've spokenTwisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,And stoop and build'em up with worn-out tools; 

If you can make one heap of all your winningsAnd risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,And lose, and start again at your beginnings,And never breathe a word about your loss:If you can force your heart and nerve and sinewTo serve your turn long after they are gone,And so hold on when there is nothing in youExcept the Will which says to them: 'Hold on! '

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,Or walk with Kings- -nor lose the common touch,If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,If all men count with you, but none too much:If you can fill the unforgiving minuteWith sixty seconds' worth of distance run,Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,And- -which is more- -you'll be a Man, my son! 

Annabel Lee-Edgar Allen Poe

It was many and many a year ago,In a kingdom by the sea,That a maiden there lived whom you may knowBy the name of ANNABEL LEE; And this maiden she lived with no other thoughtThan to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,In this kingdom by the sea; But we loved with a love that was more than love-I and my Annabel Lee; With a love that the winged seraphs of heavenCoveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,In this kingdom by the sea,A wind blew out of a cloud, chillingMy beautiful Annabel Lee; So that her highborn kinsman cameAnd bore her away from me,To shut her up in a sepulchreIn this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,Went envying her and me-Yes! - that was the reason (as all men know,In this kingdom by the sea) That the wind came out of the cloud by night,Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the loveOf those who were older than we-Of many far wiser than we-And neither the angels in heaven above,Nor the demons down under the sea,Can ever dissever my soul from the soulOf the beautiful Annabel Lee.

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreamsOf the beautiful Annabel Lee; And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyesOf the beautiful Annabel Lee; 

And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the sideOf my darling- my darling- my life and my bride,In the sepulchre there by the sea,In her tomb by the sounding sea. 

If You Forget Me-Pablo Neruda

I want you to knowone thing. 

You know how this is: if I look at the crystal moon, at the red branch of the slow autumn at my window, if I touch near the fire the impalpable ash or the wrinkled body of the log, everything carries me to you, as if everything that exists, aromas, light, metals, were little boats that sail toward those isles of yours that wait for me. 

Well, now, if little by little you stop loving me I shall stop loving you little by little. 

If suddenly you forget me do not look for me, for I shall already have forgotten you. 

If you think it long and mad, the wind of banners that passes through my life, and you decide to leave me at the shore of the heart where I have roots, remember that on that day, at that hour, I shall lift my arms and my roots will set off to seek another land. 

But if each day, each hour, you feel that you are destined for me with implacable sweetness, if each day a flower climbs 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 arms without leaving mine. 

I Wandered Lonely As a Cloud-William Worsworth

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 waves in glee:A poet could not but be 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. 

Assignment:

1. Choose a poem from the list above. Each student must choose a different poem for analysis. This is an individual assignment.

2. Complete a Poetry Analysis Worksheet (see following page) and hand it in for assessment.

3. Create a Presentation.a) Read the poem aloud to your classmatesb) Identify all of the important poetic devices that the poet uses and explain how each contributes to

the effectiveness of the poem. (List & Explain)c) Identify the Speaker, Occasion, Audience and Purpose of the Poem you have analyzed. (SOAP)d) Present a 1 paragraph personal response to the poem. What does it mean to you? What did you like

or dislike about the poem? What are your personal reactions to this poem now that you have read and understood it? Is it a meaningful and “important” poem? Why or why not? (Analysis & Personal Response)

e) Write your own poem in the same style and on the same theme as the poem that you have analyzed. (Creative Writing)

f) Use PowerPoint, Sway, or Prezi to help you present the poem that you are studying to your classmates. (Visual)

Poetry Analysis Worksheet

Poem Title: ____________________________ Poet: _________________________________________

SUMMARY: Record your first impression of the poem below:

What observations can you make about this poem?STRUCTURE: (rhyme, rhythm, type, repetition, stanza, parallelisms)

SOUND: (alliteration, assonance, consonance, cacophony, euphony, onomatopoeia, rhyme)

FIGURATIVE LANGUAGE: (metaphor, simile, personification, hyperbole, etc.)

SYMBOL(s):

IMAGERY - visual (sight), auditory (hear), olfactory (smell), tactile (touch), gustatory (taste):

TONE (emotional response created by the poem):

Responding to our Observations (SOAP)Who is the Speaker?

What's the occasion/setting? To whom is the author speaking (audience)?

What is the central purpose? How do you know this is the central purpose? Give evidence (from within the poem itself) to prove your assertions.

Evaluate: What is the poem’s intended meaning? How successful is the poet at communicating this meaning? Is the poem’s central purpose worth writing about and experiencing as a reader? Explain._____________________________________________________________________________________

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