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Tyger! Tyger! Burning bright In what distant deeps or skies And what shoulder, and what aret, What the hammer? what the chain? When the stars threw down their spears Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And both that morning equally lay I shall be teelling this with a sigh
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
Grave men, near death, who see wiht blinding sight
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Gas! GAS! Quick,-boys!-An ecstasy of fumbling,
In all my dreams before my helpless sight
If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
and when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? and what dread feet?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread gasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
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,
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how may leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
Somewhere ages and ages hence;
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--
I took the one less traveled by,
And that hs made all the difference.
weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a
tapping, As of some one 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 borrow
From my books surceas of sorrow-sorrow for the lost Lenore-
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore-
Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled 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 that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering,
fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals never 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 somehwat louder than before.
"Surely," said I, "surely that is someting 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."
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, "are sure no craven
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wnadering from the Nightly shore-
Tell me what thy 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 being
Ever yet was blest 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 the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his sould in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered- no t a feather then he fluttered-
till I scarely 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,
"Doubltess," sai dI, "what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore-
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of 'Never- nevermore'."
But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then upon the velvent sinking, I betook myself to linking
fancy unto fancy, thinkking what this ominous bird of yore-
What thi sgrim, ungainly, ghastly , gaunt andominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking "Nevermore."
This I sat engaged in geussing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat diviining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cusion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violent lining with the lamplight gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah ,nevermore!
Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim who footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch,"I cried, "thy God hath lent thee- by these angels he hat sent thee
Respite- respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, of quaff this kind nepenthe and forget his 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 my truly, I implore-
Is there- is there balm in Gildead?- 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 could with sorrow laden if, within the distant aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden who the angels name Lenore-
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
"Be that word our sign in 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 sould 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 sitting
On 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 steaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the flolor
Shall be lifted- nevermore!
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night
Their fail deed might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light>
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
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.
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame, all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.
Fitting the clumbsy helmets just in time,
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime.-
Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
He plunges at me, guttereing, choking, drowning.
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
and watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin,
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs
Bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,-
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria more,
(It is sweet and becoming to die for one's country)
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