Ralph Waldo Emerson The Problem I like a church; I like a cowl; I love a prophet of the soul; And on my heart

monastic aisles Fall like sweet strains, or pensive smiles; Yet not for all his faith can see Would I that cowld churchman be. Why should the vest on him allure, Which I could not on me endure? Not from a vain or shallow thought His awful Jove young Phidias brought; Never from lips of cunning fell The thrilling Delphic oracle; Out from the heart of nature rolled The burdens of the Bible old; The litanies of nations came, Like the volcano's tongue of flame, Up from the burning core below, -The canticles of love and woe: The hand that rounded Peter's dome And groined the aisles of Christian Rome Wrought in a sad sincerity; Himself from God he could not free; He builded better than he knew;-The conscious stone to beauty grew. Know'st thou what wove yon woodbird's nest Of leaves, and feathers from her breast? Or how the fish outbuilt her shell, Painting with morn each annual cell? Or how the sacred pine-tree adds To her old leaves new myriads? Such and so grew these holy piles, Whilst love and terror laid the tiles. Earth proudly wears the Parthenon, As the best gem upon her zone, And Morning opes with haste her lids To gaze upon the Pyramids; O'er England's abbeys bends the sky, As on its friends, with kindred eye; For out of Thought's interior sphere These wonders rose to upper air; And Nature gladly gave them place, Adopted them into her race, And granted them an equal date With Andes and with Arafat. These temples grew as grows the grass; Art might obey, but not surpass. The passive Master lent his hand To the vast soul that o'er him planned; And the same power that reared the shrine Bestrode the tribes that knelt within.

Ever the fiery Pentecost Girds with one flame the countless host, Trances the heart through chanting choirs, And through the priest the mind inspires. The word unto the prophet spoken Was writ on tables yet unbroken; The word by seers or sibyls told, In groves of oak, or fanes of gold, Still floats upon the morning wind, Still whispers to the willing mind. One accent of the Holy Ghost The heedless world hath never lost. I know what say the fathers wise,-The Book itself before me lies, Old Chrysostom , best Augustine, And he who blent both in his line, The younger Golden Lips or mines, Taylor , the Shakespeare of divines. The words are music in my ear, I see his cowld portrait dear; And yet, for all his faith could see, I would not the good bishop be.

Walt Whitman (18191892). There was a Child went Forth THERE was a child went forth every day; And the first object he lookd upon, that object he became; And that object became part of him for the day, or a certain part of the day, or for many years, or stretching cycles of years. The early lilacs became part of this child, And grass, and white and red morning-glories, and white and red clover, and the song of the phoebe-bird, And the Third-month lambs, and the sows pink-faint litter, and the mares foal, and the cows calf, And the noisy brood of the barn-yard, or by the mire of the pond-side, And the fish suspending themselves so curiously below thereand the beautiful curious liquid, And the water-plants with their graceful flat headsall became part of him. The field-sprouts of Fourth-month and Fifth-month became part of him; Winter-grain sprouts, and those of the light-yellow corn, and the esculent roots of the garden, And the apple-trees coverd with blossoms, and the fruit afterward, and wood-berries, and the commonest weeds by the road; And the old drunkard staggering home from the out-house of the tavern, whence he had lately risen, And the school-mistress that passd on her way to the school, And the friendly boys that passdand the quarrelsome boys, And the tidy and fresh-cheekd girlsand the barefoot negro boy and girl, And all the changes of city and country, wherever he went. His own parents, He that had fatherd him, and she that had conceivd him in her womb, and birthd him, They gave this child more of themselves than that; They gave him afterward every daythey became part of him. The mother at home, quietly placing the dishes on the supper-table; The mother with mild wordsclean her cap and gown, a wholesome odor falling off her person and clothes as she walks by; The father, strong, self-sufficient, manly, mean, angerd, unjust; The blow, the quick loud word, the tight bargain, the crafty lure, The family usages, the language, the company, the furniturethe yearning and swelling heart, Affection that will not be gainsaydthe sense of what is realthe thought if, after all, it should prove unreal, The doubts of day-time and the doubts of night-timethe curious whether and how, Whether that which appears so is so, or is it all flashes and specks? Men and women crowding fast in the streetsif they are not flashes and specks, what are they? The streets themselves, and the faades of houses, and goods in the windows, Vehicles, teams, the heavy-plankd wharvesthe huge crossing at the ferries, The village on the highland, seen from afar at sunsetthe river between, Shadows, aureola and mist, the light falling on roofs and gables of white or brown, three miles off, The schooner near by, sleepily dropping down the tidethe little boat slack-towd astern, The hurrying tumbling waves, quick-broken crests, slapping, The strata of colord clouds, the long bar of maroon-tint, away solitary by itselfthe spread of purity it lies motionless in, The horizons edge, the flying sea-crow, the fragrance of salt marsh and shore mud; These became part of that child who went forth every day, and who now goes, and will always go forth every day

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I Cannot Live Without You I CANNOT live with you, It would be life, And life is over there Behind the shelf The sexton keeps the key to, Putting up Our life, his porcelain, Like a cup Discarded of the housewife, Quaint or broken; A newer Sevres pleases, Old ones crack. I could not die with you, For one must wait To shut the other's gaze down, -You could not. And I, could I stand by And see you freeze, Without my right of frost, Death's privilege? Nor could I rise with you, Because your face Would put out Jesus', That new grace Glow plain and foreign On my homesick eye, Except that you, than he Shone closer by. They'd judge us -- how? For you served Heaven, you know, Or sought to; I could not, Because you saturated sight, And I had no more eyes For sordid excellence As Paradise. And were you lost, I would be, Though my name Rang loudest On the heavenly fame. And were you saved, And I condemned to be Where you were not, That self were hell to me.

So we must keep apart, You there, I here, With just the door ajar That oceans are, And prayer, And that pale sustenance, Despair!

Emily Dickinsons A Bird Came Down the Walk A Bird came down the Walk He did not know I saw He bit an Angleworm in halves And ate the fellow, raw, And then he drank a Dew From a convenient Grass And then hopped sidewise to the Wall To let a Beetle pass He glanced with rapid eyes That hurried all abroad They looked like frightened Beads, I thought He stirred his Velvet Head Like one in danger, Cautious, I offered him a Crumb And he unrolled his feathers And rowed him softer home

I heard a Fly buzz by Emily Dickinson I heard a Fly buzz when I died The Stillness in the Room Was like the Stillness in the Air Between the Heaves of Storm The Eyes around had wrung them dry And Breaths were gathering firm For that last Onset when the King Be witnessed in the Room I willed my Keepsakes Signed away What portions of me be Assignable and then it was There interposed a Fly With Blue uncertain stumbling Buzz

Between the light and me And then the Windows failed and then I could not see to see

Than Oars divide the Ocean, Too silver for a seam Or Butterflies, off Banks of Noon Leap, plashless as they swim

"I'm nobody! Who are you?" by Emily Dickinson I'm nobody! Who are you? Are you nobody, too? Then there's a pair of us don't tell! They'd banish us, you know. How dreary to be somebody! How public, like a frog To tell your name the livelong day To an admiring bog!

Robert Frost (18741963). 6. Home Burial HE saw her from the bottom of the stairs Before she saw him. She was starting down, Looking back over her shoulder at some fear. She took a doubtful step and then undid it To raise herself and look again. He spoke Advancing toward her: What is it you see From up there alwaysfor I want to know. She turned and sank upon her skirts at that, And her face changed from terrified to dull. He said to gain time: What is it you see, Mounting until she cowered under him. I will find out nowyou must tell me, dear. She, in her place, refused him any help With the least stiffening of her neck and silence. She let him look, sure that he wouldnt see, Blind creature; and a while he didnt see. But at last he murmured, Oh, and again, Oh. What is itwhat? she said. Just that I see. You dont, she challenged. Tell me what it is. The wonder is I didnt see at once. I never noticed it from here before. I must be wonted to itthats the reason. The little graveyard where my people are! So small the window frames the whole of it. Not so much larger than a bedroom, is it?

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There are three stones of slate and one of marble, Broad-shouldered little slabs there in the sunlight On the sidehill. We havent to mind those. But I understand: it is not the stones, 30 But the childs mound Dont, dont, dont, dont, she cried. She withdrew shrinking from beneath his arm That rested on the banister, and slid downstairs; And turned on him with such a daunting look, 35 He said twice over before he knew himself: Cant a man speak of his own child hes lost? Not you! Oh, wheres my hat? Oh, I dont need it! I must get out of here. I must get air. I dont know rightly whether any man can. 40 Amy! Dont go to someone else this time. Listen to me. I wont come down the stairs. He sat and fixed his chin between his fists. Theres something I should like to ask you, dear. You dont know how to ask it. 45 Help me, then. Her fingers moved the latch for all reply. My words are nearly always an offence. I dont know how to speak of anything So as to please you. But I might be taught 50 I should suppose. I cant say I see how. A man must partly give up being a man With women-folk. We could have some arrangement By which Id bind myself to keep hands off Anything special youre a-mind to name. 55 Though I dont like such things twixt those that love. Two that dont love cant live together without them. But two that do cant live together with them. She moved the latch a little. Dontdont go. Dont carry it to someone else this time. 60 Tell me about it if its something human. Let me into your grief. Im not so much Unlike other folks as your standing there Apart would make me out. Give me my chance. I do think, though, you overdo it a little. 65 What was it brought you up to think it the thing To take your mother-loss of a first child So inconsolablyin the face of love. Youd think his memory might be satisfied There you go sneering now! 70 Im not, Im not! You make me angry. Ill come down to you. God, what a woman! And its come to this, A man cant speak of his own child thats dead. You cant because you dont know how. 75 If you had any feelings, you that dug With your own handhow could you?his little grave; I saw you from that very window there, Making the gravel leap and leap in air, Leap up, like that, like that, and land so lightly 80 And roll back down the mound beside the hole. I thought, Who is that man? I didnt know you.

And I crept down the stairs and up the stairs To look again, and still your spade kept lifting. Then you came in. I heard your rumbling voice 85 Out in the kitchen, and I dont know why, But I went near to see with my own eyes. You could sit there with the stains on your shoes Of the fresh earth from your own babys grave And talk about your everyday concerns. 90 You had stood the spade up against the wall Outside there in the entry, for I saw it. I shall laugh the worst laugh I ever laughed. Im cursed. God, if I dont believe Im cursed. I can repeat the very words you were saying. 95 Three foggy mornings and one rainy day Will rot the best birch fence a man can build. Think of it, talk like that at such a time! What had how long it takes a birch to rot To do with what was in the darkened parlour. 100 You couldnt care! The nearest friends can go With anyone to death, comes so far short They might as well not try to go at all. No, from the time when one is sick to death, One is alone, and he dies more alone. 105 Friends make pretence of following to the grave, But before one is in it, their minds are turned And making the best of their way back to life And living people, and things they understand. But the worlds evil. I wont have grief so 110 If I can change it. Oh, I wont, I wont! There, you have said it all and you feel better. You wont go now. Youre crying. Close the door. The hearts gone out of it: why keep it up. Amy! Theres someone coming down the road! 115 Youoh, you think the talk is all. I must go Somewhere out of this house. How can I make you Ifyoudo! She was opening the door wider. Where do you mean to go? First tell me that. Ill follow and bring you back by force. I will! 120

Birches When I see birches bend to left and right Across the lines of straighter darker trees, I like to think some boy's been swinging them. But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay. Ice-storms do that. Often you must have seen them Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning After a rain. They click upon themselves As the breeze rises, and turn many-colored As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel. Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shells Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust--

Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away You'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen. They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load, And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed So low for long, they never right themselves: You may see their trunks arching in the woods Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair Before them over their heads to dry in the sun. But I was going to say when Truth broke in With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm (Now am I free to be poetical?) I should prefer to have some boy bend them As he went out and in to fetch the cows-Some boy too far from town to learn baseball, Whose only play was what he found himself, Summer or winter, and could play alone. One by one he subdued his father's trees By riding them down over and over again Until he took the stiffness out of them, And not one but hung limp, not one was left For him to conquer. He learned all there was To learn about not launching out too soon And so not carrying the tree away Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise To the top branches, climbing carefully With the same pains you use to fill a cup Up to the brim, and even above the brim. Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish, Kicking his way down through the air to the ground. So was I once myself a swinger of birches. And so I dream of going back to be. It's when I'm weary of considerations, And life is too much like a pathless wood Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs Broken across it, and one eye is weeping From a twig's having lashed across it open. I'd like to get away from earth awhile And then come back to it and begin over. May no fate willfully misunderstand me And half grant what I wish and snatch me away Not to return. Earth's the right place for love: I don't know where it's likely to go better. I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree, And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more, But dipped its top and set me down again. That would be good both going and coming back. One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.

Sunday Morning By Wallace Stevens Complacencies of the peignoir, and late Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair, And the green freedom of a cockatoo Upon a rug mingle to dissipate The holy hush of ancient sacrifice. She dreams a little, and she feels the dark Encroachment of that old catastrophe, As a calm darkens among water-lights. The pungent oranges and bright, green wings Seem things in some procession of the dead, Winding across wide water, without sound. The day is like wide water, without sound, Stilled for the passing of her dreaming feet Over the seas, to silent Palestine, Dominion of the blood and sepulchre. 2 Why should she give her bounty to the dead? What is divinity if it can come Only in silent shadows and in dreams? Shall she not find in comforts of the sun, In pungent fruit and bright green wings, or else In any balm or beauty of the earth, Things to be cherished like the thought of heaven? Divinity must live within herself: Passions of rain, or moods in falling snow; Grievings in loneliness, or unsubdued Elations when the forest blooms; gusty Emotions on wet roads on autumn nights; All pleasures and all pains, remembering The bough of summer and the winter branch. These are the measure destined for her soul. 3 Jove in the clouds had his inhuman birth. No mother suckled him, no sweet land gave Large-mannered motions to his mythy mind. He moved among us, as a muttering king, Magnificent, would move among his hinds, Until our blood, commingling, virginal, With heaven, brought such requital to desire The very hinds discerned it, in a star. Shall our blood fail? Or shall it come to be The blood of paradise? And shall the earth

Seem all of paradise that we shall know? The sky will be much friendlier then than now, A part of labor and a part of pain, And next in glory to enduring love, Not this dividing and indifferent blue. 4 She says, 'I am content when wakened birds, Before they fly, test the reality Of misty fields, by their sweet questionings; But when the birds are gone, and their warm fields Return no more, where, then, is paradise?' There is not any haunt of prophecy, Nor any old chimera of the grave, Neither the golden underground, nor isle Melodious, where spirits gat them home, Nor visionary south, nor cloudy palm Remote on heaven's hill, that has endured As April's green endures; or will endure Like her remembrance of awakened birds, Or her desire for June and evening, tipped By the consummation of the swallow's wings. 5 She says, 'But in contentment I still feel The need of some imperishable bliss.' Death is the mother of beauty; hence from her, Alone, shall come fulfillment to our dreams And our desires. Although she strews the leaves Of sure obliteration on our paths, The path sick sorrow took, the many paths Where triumph rang its brassy phrase, or love Whispered a little out of tenderness, She makes the willow shiver in the sun For maidens who were wont to sit and gaze Upon the grass, relinquished to their feet. She causes boys to pile new plums and pears On disregarded plate. The maidens taste And stray impassioned in the littering leaves. 6 Is there no change of death in paradise? Does ripe fruit never fall? Or do the boughs Hang always heavy in that perfect sky, Unchanging, yet so like our perishing earth, With rivers like our own that seek for seas

They never find, the same receding shores That never touch with inarticulate pang? Why set pear upon those river-banks Or spice the shores with odors of the plum? Alas, that they should wear our colors there, The silken weavings of our afternoons, And pick the strings of our insipid lutes! Death is the mother of beauty, mystical, Within whose burning bosom we devise Our earthly mothers waiting, sleeplessly. 7 Supple and turbulent, a ring of men Shall chant in orgy on a summer morn Their boisterous devotion to the sun, Not as a god, but as a god might be, Naked among them, like a savage source. Their chant shall be a chant of paradise, Out of their blood, returning to the sky; And in their chant shall enter, voice by voice, The windy lake wherein their lord delights, The trees, like serafin, and echoing hills, That choir among themselves long afterward. They shall know well the heavenly fellowship Of men that perish and of summer morn. And whence they came and whither they shall go The dew upon their feet shall manifest. 8 She hears, upon that water without sound, A voice that cries, 'The tomb in Palestine Is not the porch of spirits lingering. It is the grave of Jesus, where he lay.' We live in an old chaos of the sun, Or old dependency of day and night, Or island solitude, unsponsored, free, Of that wide water, inescapable. Deer walk upon our mountains, and the quail Whistle about us their spontaneous cries; Sweet berries ripen in the wilderness; And, in the isolation of the sky, At evening, casual flocks of pigeons make Ambiguous undulations as they sink, Downward to darkness, on extended wings.

Lady Lazarus By Sylvia Path I have done it again. One year in every ten I manage it----A sort of walking miracle, my skin Bright as a Nazi lampshade, My right foot A paperweight, My featureless, fine Jew linen. Peel off the napkin O my enemy. Do I terrify?------The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth? The sour breath Will vanish in a day. Soon, soon the flesh The grave cave ate will be At home on me And I a smiling woman. I am only thirty. And like the cat I have nine times to die. This is Number Three. What a trash To annihilate each decade. What a million filaments. The Peanut-crunching crowd Shoves in to see Them unwrap me hand and foot -----The big strip tease. Gentleman , ladies These are my hands My knees. I may be skin and bone, Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman. The first time it happened I was ten. It was an accident. The second time I meant To last it out and not come back at all. I rocked shut

As a seashell. They had to call and call And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls. Dying Is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well. I do it so it feels like hell. I do it so it feels real. I guess you could say I've a call. It's easy enough to do it in a cell. It's easy enough to do it and stay put. It's the theatrical Comeback in broad day To the same place, the same face, the same brute Amused shout: 'A miracle!' That knocks me out. There is a charge For the eyeing my scars, there is a charge For the hearing of my heart--It really goes. And there is a charge, a very large charge For a word or a touch Or a bit of blood Or a piece of my hair on my clothes. So, so, Herr Doktor. So, Herr Enemy. I am your opus, I am your valuable, The pure gold baby That melts to a shriek. I turn and burn. Do not think I underestimate your great concern. Ash, ash--You poke and stir. Flesh, bone, there is nothing there---A cake of soap, A wedding ring, A gold filling. Herr God, Herr Lucifer Beware Beware.

Out of the ash I rise with my red hair And I eat men like air.

Skunk Hour By Robert Lowell

Nautilus Island's hermit heiress still lives through winter in her Spartan cottage; her sheep still graze above the sea. Her son's a bishop. Her farmer is first selectman in our village; she's in her dotage. Thirsting for the hierarchie privacy of Queen Victoria's century, she buys up all the eyesores facing her shore, and lets them fall. The season's ill-we've lost our summer millionaire, who seemed to leap from an L. L. Bean catalogue. His nine-knot yawl was auctioned off to lobstermen. A red fox stain covers Blue Hill. And now our fairy decorator brightens his shop for fall; his fishnet's filled with orange cork, orange, his cobbler's bench and awl; there is no money in his work, he'd rather marry. One dark night, my Tudor Ford climbed the hill's skull; I watched for love-cars. Lights turned down, they lay together, hull to hull, where the graveyard shelves on the town. . . . My mind's not right. A car radio bleats, "Love, O careless Love. . . ." I hear my ill-spirit sob in each blood cell, as if my hand were at its throat. . . .

I myself am hell; nobody's here-only skunks, that search in the moonlight for a bite to eat. They march on their soles up Main Street: white stripes, moonstruck eyes' red fire under the chalk-dry and spar spire of the Trinitarian Church. I stand on top of our back steps and breathe the rich air-a mother skunk with her column of kittens swills the garbage pail. She jabs her wedge-head in a cup of sour cream, drops her ostrich tail, and will not scare.