‘Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening’ by Robert Frost
Whose woods
these are I think I know.
His house is in
the village though;
He will not see
me stopping here
To watch his
woods fill up with snow.
My little horse
must think it queer
To stop without
a farmhouse near
Between the
woods and frozen lake
The darkest
evening of the year.
He gives his
harness bells a shake
To ask if there
is some mistake.
The only other
sound's the sweep
Of easy wind
and downy flake.
The woods are
lovely, dark and deep.
But I have
promises to keep,
And miles to go
before I sleep,
And miles to go
before I sleep.
‘London’ by William Blake
I wander thro' each charter'd street,
Near where the
charter'd Thames does flow,
And mark in
every face I meet
Marks of
weakness, marks of woe.
In every cry of
every Man,
In every
Infant's cry of fear,
In every voice,
in every ban,
The mind-forg'd
manacles I hear.
How the
Chimney-sweeper's cry
Every
black'ning Church appalls;
And the hapless
Soldier's sigh
Runs in blood
down Palace walls.
But most thro'
midnight streets I hear
How the
youthful Harlot's curse
Blasts the new
born Infant's tear,
And blights
with plagues the Marriage hearse.
‘Mutability’ by
Percy Bysshe Shelley
The flower that smiles today
Tomorrow dies;
All that we wish to stay
Tempts and then flies.
What is this world's delight?
Lightning that mocks the night,
Brief even as bright.
Virtue, how frail it is!
Friendship how rare!
Love, how it sells poor bliss
For proud despair!
But we, though soon they fall,
Survive their joy, and all
Which ours we call.
Whilst skies are blue and bright,
Whilst flowers are gay,
Whilst eyes that change ere night
Make glad the day;
Whilst yet the calm hours creep,
Dream thou -- and from thy sleep
Then wake to weep.
