When I am dead, my dearest

        by  Christina G. Rossetti


When I am dead, my dearest, 
Sing no sad songs for me; 
Plant thou no roses at my head, 
Nor shady cypress tree: 
Be the green grass above me 
With showers and dewdrops wet; 
And if thou wilt, remember, 
And if thou wilt, forget. 

I shall not see the shadows, 
I shall not feel the rain; 
I shall not hear the nightingale 
Sing on, as if in pain: 
And dreaming through the twilight 
That doth not rise nor set, 
Haply I may remember, 
And haply may forget. 

내가 죽으면, 사랑하는 이여

        by 크리스티나 G. 로세티

사랑하는 이여, 나 죽으면
슬픈 노래 부르지 말아요,
머리맡에 장미꽃 심지 말고
그늘 많은 전나무 심지 말아요,
내 몸 위에 돋아난 풀 소낙비를 맞든
이슬에 젖든 그대로 두세요,
그리고 기억하고 싶거든 기억하고
잊고 싶으면 잊으세요

어느 그늘도 보지 못하여
비 내리는 것도 느낄 수 없어요.
슬픈 듯 울어대는 나이팅게일의
울음소리도 듣지 못해요,
날이 새고 지는 일 없는
희미한 어둠 속에서 꿈꾸며,
아마도 당신을 잊지 못 할 거예요,
어쩌면 당신을 잊을 지도 모른다오.

A Light exists in Spring

    by Emily Dickinson


A Light exists in Spring
Not present on the Year
At any other period –
When March is scarcely here

A Color stands abroad
On Solitary Fields
That Science cannot overtake
But Human Nature feels.

It waits upon the Lawn,
It shows the furthest Tree
Upon the furthest Slope you know
It almost speaks to you.

Then as Horizons step
Or Noons report away
Without the Formula of sound
It passes and we stay –

A quality of loss
Affecting our Content
As Trade had suddenly encroached
Upon a Sacrament.

The Good-Morrow

        by John Donne(1572~1631)


I wonder, by my troth, what thou and I
Did, till we loved? Were we not weaned till then?
But sucked on country pleasures, childishly?
Or snorted we in the Seven Sleepers’ den?
’Twas so; but this, all pleasures fancies be.
If ever any beauty I did see,
Which I desired, and got, ’twas but a dream of thee.

And now good-morrow to our waking souls,
Which watch not one another out of fear;
For love, all love of other sights controls,
And makes one little room an everywhere.
Let sea-discoverers to new worlds have gone,
Let maps to other, worlds on worlds have shown,
Let us possess one world, each hath one, and is one.

My face in thine eye, thine in mine appears,
And true plain hearts do in the faces rest;
Where can we find two better hemispheres,
Without sharp north, without declining west?
Whatever dies, was not mixed equally;
If our two loves be one, or, thou and I
Love so alike, that none do slacken, none can die.

To the Daffodil 

    by Jeong, Ho-seung


Don't cry.
To be lonely is to be human.
To go on living is to endure loneliness.
Do not wait in vain for the phone call that never comes.

When snow falls, walk on snowy paths,
when rain falls, walk on rainy paths.
A black-breasted longbill is watching you from the bed of reeds.

Sometimes even God is so lonely he weeps.
Birds perch on branches because they are lonely
and you are sitting beside the stream because you are lonely.

The hill's shadow comes down to the village once a day because it, too, is lonely.
And a bell's chime resounds because it, too, is lonely.

Daffodils

      by William Wordsworth


I wandered lonely as a cloud
That 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 shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced, but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not be but gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed'and gazed'but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

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

Dear March - Come in

By Emily Dickinson


DEAR March, come in!
How glad I am!
I looked for you before.
Put down your hat—
You must have walked—
How out of breath you are!
Dear March, how are you?
And the rest?
Did you leave Nature well?
Oh, March, come right upstairs with me,
I have so much to tell!

I got your letter, and the bird's;
The maples never knew
That you were coming,—I declare,
How red their faces grew!
But, March, forgive me—
And all those hills
You left for me to hue;
There was no purple suitable,
You took it all with you.

Who knocks? That April!
Lock the door!
I will not be pursued!
He stayed away a year, to call
When I am occupied.
But trifles look so trivial
As soon as you have come,
That blame is just as dear as praise
And praise as mere as blame.

The Tyger 
    By 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 Soldier

        by Rupert Brooke


 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.

Abou Ben Adhem

        by Leigh Hunt(1838)


Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An angel writing in a book of gold:—
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the presence in the room he said,
"What writest thou?"—The vision raised its head,
And with a look made of all sweet accord,
Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord."
"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so,"
Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerly still; and said, "I pray thee, then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow men."

The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night
It came again with a great wakening light,
And showed the names whom love of God had blest,
And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.

London

        by William Blake


I wander thro' each charter'd street, 
Near where the charter'd Thames does flow. 
And mark in every face I meet 
Marks of weakness, marks of woe. 

In every cry of every Man, 
In every Infants cry of fear, 
In every voice: in every ban, 
The mind-forg'd manacles I hear 

How the Chimney-sweepers cry 
Every blackning Church appalls, 
And the hapless Soldiers sigh 
Runs in blood down Palace walls 

But most thro' midnight streets I hear 
How the youthful Harlots curse 
Blasts the new-born Infants tear 
And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse 

The Lake Isle of Innisfree

        by William Butler Yeats


I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet’s wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart’s core.

The Darkling Thrush

        by Thomas Hardy


I leant upon a coppice gate
      When Frost was spectre-grey,
And Winter's dregs made desolate
      The weakening eye of day.
The tangled bine-stems scored the sky
      Like strings of broken lyres,
And all mankind that haunted nigh
      Had sought their household fires.

The land's sharp features seemed to be
      The Century's corpse outleant,
His crypt the cloudy canopy,
      The wind his death-lament.
The ancient pulse of germ and birth
      Was shrunken hard and dry,
And every spirit upon earth
      Seemed fervourless as I.

At once a voice arose among
      The bleak twigs overhead
In a full-hearted evensong
      Of joy illimited;
An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,
      In blast-beruffled plume,
Had chosen thus to fling his soul
      Upon the growing gloom.

So little cause for carolings
      Of such ecstatic sound
Was written on terrestrial things
      Afar or nigh around,
That I could think there trembled through
      His happy good-night air
Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew
      And I was unaware.

Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard

        by Thomas Gray



The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, 
         The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea, 
The plowman homeward plods his weary way, 
         And leaves the world to darkness and to me. 

Now fades the glimm'ring landscape on the sight, 
         And all the air a solemn stillness holds, 
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, 
         And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds; 

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r 
         The moping owl does to the moon complain 
Of such, as wand'ring near her secret bow'r, 
         Molest her ancient solitary reign. 

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, 
         Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap, 
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, 
         The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 

The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn, 
         The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed, 
The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, 
         No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. 

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, 
         Or busy housewife ply her evening care: 
No children run to lisp their sire's return, 
         Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. 

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, 
         Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; 
How jocund did they drive their team afield! 
         How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! 

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, 
         Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; 
Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile 
         The short and simple annals of the poor. 

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r, 
         And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, 
Awaits alike th' inevitable hour. 
         The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, 
         If Mem'ry o'er their tomb no trophies raise, 
Where thro' the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault 
         The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. 

Can storied urn or animated bust 
         Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? 
Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust, 
         Or Flatt'ry soothe the dull cold ear of Death? 

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 
         Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; 
Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd, 
         Or wak'd to ecstasy the living lyre. 

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page 
         Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll; 
Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage, 
         And froze the genial current of the soul. 

Full many a gem of purest ray serene, 
         The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear: 
Full many a flow'r is born to blush unseen, 
         And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 

Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast 
         The little tyrant of his fields withstood; 
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, 
         Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood. 

Th' applause of list'ning senates to command, 
         The threats of pain and ruin to despise, 
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, 
         And read their hist'ry in a nation's eyes, 

Their lot forbade: nor circumscrib'd alone 
         Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd; 
Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, 
         And shut the gates of mercy on mankind, 

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, 
         To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, 
Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride 
         With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. 

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, 
         Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray; 
Along the cool sequester'd vale of life 
         They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. 

Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect, 
         Some frail memorial still erected nigh, 
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd, 
         Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 

Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd muse, 
         The place of fame and elegy supply: 
And many a holy text around she strews, 
         That teach the rustic moralist to die. 

For who to dumb Forgetfulness a prey, 
         This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd, 
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, 
         Nor cast one longing, ling'ring look behind? 

On some fond breast the parting soul relies, 
         Some pious drops the closing eye requires; 
Ev'n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, 
         Ev'n in our ashes live their wonted fires. 

For thee, who mindful of th' unhonour'd Dead 
         Dost in these lines their artless tale relate; 
If chance, by lonely contemplation led, 
         Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, 

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, 
         "Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn 
Brushing with hasty steps the dews away 
         To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. 

"There at the foot of yonder nodding beech 
         That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, 
His listless length at noontide would he stretch, 
         And pore upon the brook that babbles by. 

"Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, 
         Mutt'ring his wayward fancies he would rove, 
Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn, 
         Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love. 

"One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill, 
         Along the heath and near his fav'rite tree; 
Another came; nor yet beside the rill, 
         Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he; 

"The next with dirges due in sad array 
         Slow thro' the church-way path we saw him borne. 
Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay, 
         Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." 

THE EPITAPH 
Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth 
       A youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown. 
Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth, 
       And Melancholy mark'd him for her own. 

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, 
       Heav'n did a recompense as largely send: 
He gave to Mis'ry all he had, a tear, 
       He gain'd from Heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a friend. 

No farther seek his merits to disclose, 
       Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, 
(There they alike in trembling hope repose) 
       The bosom of his Father and his God. 

She Dwelt among the Untrodden Ways

        by William Wordsworth


She dwelt among the untrodden ways 
Beside the springs of Dove, 
A Maid whom there were none to praise 
And very few to love: 

A violet by a mossy stone 
Half hidden from the eye! 
—Fair as a star, when only one 
Is shining in the sky. 

She lived unknown, and few could know 
When Lucy ceased to be; 
But she is in her grave, and, oh, 
The difference to me! 

'Tis The Last Rose Of Summer 

        by Thomas Moore


'Tis the last rose of summer
Left blooming alone;
All her lovely companions
Are faded and gone:
No flower of her kindred,
No rose-bud is nigh,
To reflect back her blushes,
Or give sigh for sigh.

I'll not leave thee, thou lone one!
To pine on the stem;
Since the lovely are sleeping,
Go, sleep thou with them.
Thus kindly I scatter
Thy leaves o'er the bed,
Where thy mates of the garden
Lie scentless and dead.

So soon may I follow,
When friendships decay,
And from Love's shining circle
The gems drop away.
When true hearts lie wither'd,
And fond ones are flown,
Oh! who would inhabit
This bleak world alone?

The World Is Too Much With Us

        by William Wordsworth


The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;—
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not. Great God! I’d rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn.

To a Skylark

       by Percy Bysshe Shelley


Hail to thee, blithe Spirit! 
Bird thou never wert, 
That from Heaven, or near it, 
Pourest thy full heart 
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. 

Higher still and higher 
From the earth thou springest 
Like a cloud of fire; 
The blue deep thou wingest, 
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. 

In the golden lightning 
Of the sunken sun, 
O'er which clouds are bright'ning, 
Thou dost float and run; 
Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun. 

The pale purple even 
Melts around thy flight; 
Like a star of Heaven, 
In the broad day-light 
Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight, 

Keen as are the arrows 
Of that silver sphere, 
Whose intense lamp narrows 
In the white dawn clear 
Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there. 

All the earth and air 
With thy voice is loud, 
As, when night is bare, 
From one lonely cloud 
The moon rains out her beams, and Heaven is overflow'd. 

What thou art we know not; 
What is most like thee? 
From rainbow clouds there flow not 
Drops so bright to see 
As from thy presence showers a rain of melody. 

Like a Poet hidden 
In the light of thought, 
Singing hymns unbidden, 
Till the world is wrought 
To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not: 

Like a high-born maiden 
In a palace-tower, 
Soothing her love-laden 
Soul in secret hour 
With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower: 

Like a glow-worm golden 
In a dell of dew, 
Scattering unbeholden 
Its a{:e}real hue 
Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view: 

Like a rose embower'd 
In its own green leaves, 
By warm winds deflower'd, 
Till the scent it gives 
Makes faint with too much sweet those heavy-winged thieves: 

Sound of vernal showers 
On the twinkling grass, 
Rain-awaken'd flowers, 
All that ever was 
Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass. 

Teach us, Sprite or Bird, 
What sweet thoughts are thine: 
I have never heard 
Praise of love or wine 
That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. 

Chorus Hymeneal, 
Or triumphal chant, 
Match'd with thine would be all 
But an empty vaunt, 
A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want. 

What objects are the fountains 
Of thy happy strain? 
What fields, or waves, or mountains? 
What shapes of sky or plain? 
What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain? 

With thy clear keen joyance 
Languor cannot be: 
Shadow of annoyance 
Never came near thee: 
Thou lovest: but ne'er knew love's sad satiety. 

Waking or asleep, 
Thou of death must deem 
Things more true and deep 
Than we mortals dream, 
Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream? 

We look before and after, 
And pine for what is not: 
Our sincerest laughter 
With some pain is fraught; 
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. 

Yet if we could scorn 
Hate, and pride, and fear; 
If we were things born 
Not to shed a tear, 
I know not how thy joy we ever should come near. 

Better than all measures 
Of delightful sound, 
Better than all treasures 
That in books are found, 
Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground! 

Teach me half the gladness 
That thy brain must know, 
Such harmonious madness 
From my lips would flow 
The world should listen then, as I am listening now. 

Sonnet 19: When I consider how my light is spent

        by John Milton


When I consider how my light is spent, 
   Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, 
   And that one Talent which is death to hide 
   Lodged with me useless, though my Soul more bent 
To serve therewith my Maker, and present 
   My true account, lest he returning chide; 
   “Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?” 
   I fondly ask. But patience, to prevent 
That murmur, soon replies, “God doth not need 
   Either man’s work or his own gifts; who best 
   Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state 
Is Kingly. Thousands at his bidding speed 
   And post o’er Land and Ocean without rest: 
   They also serve who only stand and wait.”

Dover Beach

        by 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.