Poetry Set 5: Rhyme and Meter

Fire and Ice by Robert Frost

Some say the world will end in fire,Some say in ice.From what I've tasted of desire I hold with those who favor fire.But if it had to perish twice,I think I know enough of hateTo say that for destruction iceIs also greatAnd would suffice.

We never know how high we are by Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)

We never know how high we areTill we are asked to riseAnd then if we are true to planOur statures touch the skies --

The Heroism we reciteWould be a normal thingDid not ourselves the Cubits warpFor fear to be a King –

maggie and milly and molly and may by E. E. Cummings

maggie and milly and molly and may went down to the beach (to play one day)

and maggie discovered a shell that sang so sweetly she couldn't remember her troubles,and

milly befriended a stranded starwhose rays five languid fingers were;

and molly was chased by a horrible thing which raced sideways while blowing bubbles:and

may came home with a smooth round stone as small as a world and as large as alone.

For whatever we lose (like a you or a me) it's always ourselves we find in the sea

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Poetry Set 5: Rhyme and Meter

The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost (1915)

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,And sorry I could not travel bothAnd be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth.

Then took the other, as just as fair,And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same.

And both that morning equally layIn leaves no step had trodden black.Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sighSomewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

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Poetry Set 5: Rhyme and Meter

Macavity  - The Mystery Cat by T S Eliot

Macavity's a Mystery Cat: he's called the Hidden Paw--For he's the master criminal who can defy the Law.He's the bafflement of Scotland Yard, the Flying Squad's despair: For when they reach the scene of crime--Macavity's not there!

Macavity, Macavity, there's no on like Macavity,He's broken every human law, he breaks the law of gravity.His powers of levitation would make a fakir stare,And when you reach the scene of crime--Macavity's not there!You may seek him in the basement, you may look up in the air--But I tell you once and once again, Macavity's not there!

Macavity's a ginger cat, he's very tall and thin;You would know him if you saw him, for his eyes are sunken in.His brow is deeply lined with thought, his head is highly doomed;His coat is dusty from neglect, his whiskers are uncombed.He sways his head from side to side, with movements like a snake;And when you think he's half asleep, he's always wide awake.

Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macavity,For he's a fiend in feline shape, a monster of depravity.You may meet him in a by-street, you may see him in the square--But when a crime's discovered, then Macavity's not there!

He's outwardly respectable. (They say he cheats at cards.)And his footprints are not found in any file of Scotland Yard's.And when the larder's looted, or the jewel-case is rifled,Or when the milk is missing, or another Peke's been stifled,Or the greenhouse glass is broken, and the trellis past repair--Ay, there's the wonder of the thing! Macavity's not there!

And when the Foreign Office finds a Treaty's gone astray,Or the Admiralty lose some plans and drawings by the way,There may be a scap of paper in the hall or on the stair--But it's useless of investigate--Macavity's not there!And when the loss has been disclosed, the Secret Service say:"It must have been Macavity!"--but he's a mile away.You'll be sure to find him resting, or a-licking of his thumbs,Or engaged in doing complicated long division sums.

Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macacity,There never was a Cat of such deceitfulness and suavity.He always has an alibit, or one or two to spare:And whatever time the deed took place--MACAVITY WASN'T THERE!And they say that all the Cats whose wicked deeds are widely known(I might mention Mungojerrie, I might mention Griddlebone)Are nothing more than agents for the Cat who all the timeJust controls their operations: the Napoleon of Crime!

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Poetry Set 5: Rhyme and Meter

The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe (1845)

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door." 'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door;Only this, and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December,And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought to borrowFrom my books surcease of sorrow, sorrow for the lost Lenore,.For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore,Nameless here forevermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtainThrilled me---filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating," 'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door,Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door.This it is, and nothing more."

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,"Sir," said I, "or madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;But the fact is, I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,That I scarce was sure I heard you." Here I opened wide the door;---Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into the darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearingDoubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,And the only word there spoken was the whispered word,Lenore?, This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word,"Lenore!" Merely this, and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,Soon again I heard a tapping, something louder than before,"Surely," said I, "surely, that is something at my window lattice.Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore.Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore." 'Tis the wind, and nothing more."

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Poetry Set 5: Rhyme and Meter

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,In there stepped a stately raven, of the saintly days of yore.Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;But with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door.Perched upon a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door,Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven thou," I said, "art sure no craven,Ghastly, grim, and ancient raven, wandering from the nightly shore.Tell me what the lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore."Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,Though its answer little meaning, little relevancy bore;For we cannot help agreeing that no living human beingEver yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door,Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,With such name as "Nevermore."

But the raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke onlyThat one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.Nothing further then he uttered; not a feather then he fluttered;Till I scarcely more than muttered, "Other friends have flown before;On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."Then the bird said, "Nevermore."

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful disasterFollowed fast and followed faster, till his songs one burden bore,---Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden boreOf "Never---nevermore."

But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linkingFancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore --What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore                                       Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

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Poetry Set 5: Rhyme and Meter

Thus I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressingTo the fowl, whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease recliningOn the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er,But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'erShe shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censerSwung by seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor."Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee -- by these angels he hathSent thee respite---respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!Quaff, O quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!"Quoth the raven, "Nevermore!"

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!--prophet still, if bird or devil!Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted--On this home by horror haunted--tell me truly, I implore:Is there--is there balm in Gilead?--tell me--tell me I implore!"Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil--prophet still, if bird or devil!By that heaven that bends above us--by that God we both adore--Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if, within the distant Aidenn,It shall clasp a sainted maiden, whom the angels name Lenore--- Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels name Lenore?Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."

"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting--"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!Leave my loneliness unbroken! -- quit the bust above my door!Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sittingOn the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming.And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floorShall be lifted---nevermore!

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