Emily Dickinson:
One need not be a chamber to be haunted,/ One need not be a house;/ The brain has corridors surpassing/ Material place./ Far safer, of a midnight meeting/ External ghost,/ Than an interior confronting/ That whiter host./ Far safer through an Abbey gallop,/ The stones achase,/ Than, moonless, one’s own self encounter/ In lonesome place./ Ourself, behind ourself concealed,/ Should startle most;/ Assassin, hid in our apartment,/ Be horror’s least./ The prudent carries a revolver,/ He bolts the door,/O’erlooking a superior spectre/ More near.
I died for beauty, but was scarce/ Adjusted in the tomb,/ When one who died for truth was lain/ In an adjoining room./ He questioned softly why I failed?/ “For beauty,” I replied./ “And I for truth, - the two are one;/ We brethren are,” he said./ And so, as kinsmen met a night,/ We talked between the rooms,/ Until the moss had reached our lips,/ And covered up our names.
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!
My life closed twice before it’s close;/ It yet remains to see/ If Immortality unveil/ A third event to me,/ So huge, so hopeless to conceive,/ As these that twice befell./ Parting is all we know of heaven,/ And all we need of hell.
There is no frigate like a book/ To take us to lands away,/ Nor any coursers like a page/ Of prancing poetry./ This traverse may the poorest take/ Without oppress of toll;/ How frugal is the chariot/ That bears the human soul!
Langston Hughes:
The Weary Blues
Droning a drowsy syncopated tune,/ Rocking back and forth to a mellow crone,/ I heard a Negro play./ Down on Lenox Avenue the other night/ By the pale dull pallor of an old gas light/ He did a lazy sway…/ He did a lazy sway…/ To the tune o’ those Weary Blues./ With his ebony hands on each ivory key/ He made that poor piano moan with melody./ O Blues!/ Swaying to and fro on his rickety stool/ He played that sad raggy tune like a musical fool./ Sweet Blues!/ Coming from a black man’s soul./ O Blues!/ In a deep song voice with a melancholy tone/ I heard that Negro sing, that old piano moan —/ “Ain’t got nobody in all this world,/ Ain’t got nobody but ma self./ I’s gwine to quit ma frownin’/ And put ma troubles on the shelf.”/ Thump, thump, thump, went his foot on the floor./ He played a few chords then he sang some more —/ “I got the Weary Blues/ And can’t be satisfied./ Got the Weary Blues/ And can’t be satisfied —/ I ain’t happy no mo’/ And I wish that I had died.”/ And far into the night he crooned that tune./ The stars went out and so did the moon./ The singer stopped playing and went to bed/ While the Weary Blues echoed through his head./ He slept like a rock or a man that’s dead.
Song for a Dark Girl
Way Down South in Dixie/ (Break the heart of me)/ They hung my black young lover/ To a cross roads tree./ Way Down South in Dixie/ (Bruised body high in air)/ I asked the white Lord Jesus/ What was the use of prayer./ Way Down South in Dixie/ (Break the heart of me)/ Love is a naked shadow/ On a gnarled and naked tree.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning
The Sleep
‘He giveth his beloved sleep’ - Psalm 127:2
1. Of all the thoughts of God that are/ Borne inward into souls afar/ Along the Psalmist’s music deep,/ Now tell me if that any is,/ For gift or grace, surpassing this:/ ‘He giveth his beloved — sleep ?’/ 2. What would we give to our beloved?/ The hero’s heart to be unmoved,/ The poet’s star-tuned harp to sweep,/ The patriot’s voice to teach and rouse,/ The monarch’s crown to light the brows ?/ He giveth his beloved — sleep./ 3. What do we give to our beloved ?/ A little faith all undisproved,/ A little dust to overweep,/ And bitter memories to make/ The whole earth blasted for our sake:/ He giveth his beloved — sleep./ 4. ‘Sleep soft,’ beloved ! we sometimes say,/ Who have no tune to charm away/ Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep:/ But never doleful dream again/ Shall break the happy slumber when/ He giveth his beloved — sleep./ 5. O earth, so full of dreary noises !/ O men, with wailing in your voices !/ O delved gold, the wailers heap !/ O strife, O curse, that o’er it fall !/ God strikes a silence through you all,/ And giveth his beloved — sleep./ 6. His dews drop mutely on the hill,/ His cloud above it saileth still,/ Though on its slope men sow and reap:/ More softly than the dew is shed,/ Or cloud floated overhead,/ He giveth his beloved — sleep./ 7. Ay, men may wonder while they scan/ a living, thinking, feeling man/ Confirmed in such a rest to keep;/ But angels say, and through the word/ I think their happy smile is heard —/ ‘He giveth his beloved — sleep.’/ 8. For me, my heart that erst did go/ Most like a tired child at a show,/ That sees through tears the mummers leap,/ Would now its wearied vision close,/ Would childlike on his love repose/ Who giveth his beloved — sleep./ 9. And friends, dear friends, when it shall be/ That this low breath is gone from me,/ And round my bier ye come to weep,/ Let One, most loving of you all,/ Say ‘Not a tear must o’er her fall !/ ‘He giveth his beloved sleep.’
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