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The White Doe Of Rylstone, Or, The Fate Of The Nortons - Canto Fourth

'Tis night: in silence looking down,
The Moon, from cloudless ether, sees
A Camp, and a beleaguered Town,
And Castle, like a stately crown
On the steep rocks of winding Tees;--
And southward far, with moor between,
Hill-top, and flood, and forest green,
The bright Moon sees that valley small
Where Rylstone's old sequestered Hall
A venerable image yields
Of quiet to the neighbouring fields;
While from one pillared chimney breathes
The smoke, and mounts in silver wreaths.
--The courts are hushed;--for timely sleep
The greyhounds to their kennel creep;
The peacock in the broad ash tree
Aloft is roosted for the night,
He who in proud prosperity
Of colours manifold and bright
Walked round, affronting the daylight;

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poem by William Wordsworth
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When you are Old

Sonnet XXXII

Should you survive the number of my days,
Attest to buried bones and grounded hope,
Nervous, by chance, perhaps this book you'll ope,
Grave hand re-reading, when fast passed my ways.
Tender friend recall our comet blaze,
Openly with instinct's gyroscope
Mark, nurture, sight and sound, bright chromascope,
Able to distill implicit ph[r]ase.
Methinks fond thoughts might share this paraphrase:
“As rainbow bridge strips off coarse envelope
Underdeveloped were poor poet’s plays -
Death forced him far too early to elope.
E’er since he died, have other poets flourished.
Competent their works, I’ll read his, who love nourished.”

[c] Jonathan Robin

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poem by Jonathan Robin
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The Gift Of Harun Al-Rashid

KUSTA BEN LUKA is my name, I write
To Abd Al-Rabban; fellow-roysterer once,
Now the good Caliph's learned Treasurer,
And for no ear but his.
Carry this letter
Through the great gallery of the Treasure House
Where banners of the Caliphs hang, night-coloured
But brilliant as the night's embroidery,
And wait war's music; pass the little gallery;
Pass books of learning from Byzantium
Written in gold upon a purple stain,
And pause at last, I was about to say,
At the great book of Sappho's song; but no,
For should you leave my letter there, a boy's
Love-lorn, indifferent hands might come upon it
And let it fall unnoticed to the floor.
pause at the Treatise of parmenides
And hide it there, for Caiphs to world's end
Must keep that perfect, as they keep her song,
So great its fame.

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poem by William Butler Yeats
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The Princes' Quest - Part the First

There was a time, it passeth me to say
How long ago, but sure 'twas many a day
Before the world had gotten her such store
Of foolish wisdom as she hath,-before
She fell to waxing gray with weight of years
And knowledge, bitter knowledge, bought with tears,-
When it did seem as if the feet of time
Moved to the music of a golden rhyme,
And never one false thread might woven be
Athwart that web of worldwide melody.
'Twas then there lived a certain queen and king,
Unvext of wars or other evil thing,
Within a spacious palace builded high,
Whence they might see their chiefest city lie
About them, and half hear from their tall towers
Its populous murmur through the daylight hours,
And see beyond its walls the pleasant plain.
One child they had, these blissful royal twain:
Of whom 'tis told-so more than fair was he-
There lurked at whiles a something shadowy

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poem by William Watson
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The Old Cumberland Beggar

I saw an aged Beggar in my walk;
And he was seated, by the highway side,
On a low structure of rude masonry
Built at the foot of a huge hill, that they
Who lead their horses down the steep rough road
May thence remount at ease. The aged Man
Had placed his staff across the broad smooth stone
That overlays the pile; and, from a bag
All white with flour, the dole of village dames,
He drew his scraps and fragments, one by one;
And scanned them with a fixed and serious look
Of idle computation. In the sun,
Upon the second step of that small pile,
Surrounded by those wild unpeopled hills,
He sat, and ate his food in solitude:
And ever, scattered from his palsied hand,
That, still attempting to prevent the waste,
Was baffled still, the crumbs in little showers
Fell on the ground; and the small mountain birds,
Not venturing yet to peck their destined meal,

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poem by William Wordsworth
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Cotter's Saturday Night, The

Inscribed to Robert Aiken, Esq.

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.
(Gray, "Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard")

My lov'd, my honour'd, much respected friend!
No mercenary bard his homage pays;
With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end:
My dearest meed a friend's esteem and praise.
To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays,
The lowly train in life's sequester'd scene;
The native feelings strong, the guileless ways;
What Aiken in a cottage would have been;
Ah! tho' his worth unknown, far happier there, I ween!

November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh,
The short'ning winter day is near a close;

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poem by Robert Burns
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Sell My Soul

Lets begin, I am ready, lets begin
Sell my soul to him
Shed my skin, I just wanna shed my skin
I dont wanna sell my soul to him
Mechanize, city bursts and farmers die
They cry
Sleep face down in a goods train heading south in the rain
In this world I often think you understand me
In these words I often think youd recognise me
cos I just wanna swim with the fish in the sea
And I want faith to heal so that I can be clean
Americas great now
If you dont talk back
You hide your face
Crawl in rubble and smile and scorn
At that snail-paced creature
Going up and down walls
Celebrate, I just want to celebrate
Im not going to sell my soul to him
When you look right in

song performed by Midnight Oil
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Cotter's Saturday Night

Inscribed to Robert Aiken, Esq.

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.

Gray, "Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard"

My lov'd, my honour'd, much respected friend!
No mercenary bard his homage pays;
With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end,
My dearest meed a friend's esteem and praise:
To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays,
The lowly train in life's sequester'd scene,
The native feelings strong, the guileless ways,
What Aiken in a cottage would have been;
Ah! tho' his worth unknown, far happier there, I ween!

November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh,

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poem by Robert Burns (1786)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Pillow Your Eyes

From closet cultivation demo tape
Viewed the scene on a black and white t.v.
Chose your words hey mom I want to be...
So, study hard. your work became your cell.
Dont you dare inhale, or youll be damned to hell!
No! yes, back and in your prime and things are in a swirl.
Solaced with your choice, out pops a baby girl!
Family now complete, and powers in your hands.
Youve won the greatest prize, its time to take a stand.
Sphincter freed last on your common throne.
You think the kill weeds chompin at your noodles flow.
Theres somethin about the herb, so fast, hypnotize.
A ripened head change thatll pillow your eyes.
Will you be the superman inflicting drastic change?
The power of your name has spanded out a boundless range.
Will you meet the needs of a fast paced, awkward, life-span I call we?
Our trust is now within you. so by soul cries let it be.
Pillow your eyes! yes, i, praise jah!

song performed by Incubus
Added by Lucian Velea
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Tuesday Morning

I remember,
Stormy weather,
The way the sky looks when it's cold
And you were with me,
Content with walking,
So unaware of the world
[bridge]
Please don't drive me home tonight,
'Cause I don't want to feel alone,
Please don't drive me home tonight
'Cause I don't wanna go
[chorus]
Tuesday morning,
In the dark
I was finding out,
Who you are oh
I took your picture,
While you were sleeping,
Then I paced around the room
If I had known then,

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song performed by Michelle Branch
Added by Lucian Velea
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