Dead Poets and Dark Caves

Fear No More
William Shakespeare

Fear no more the heat o' the sun;
Nor the furious winter's rages,
Thou thy worldly task hast done,
Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages;
Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney sweepers come to dust.

Fear no more the frown of the great,
Thou art past the tyrant's stroke:
Care no more to clothe and eat;
To thee the reed is as the oak:
The sceptre, learning, physic, must
All follow this, and come to dust.

Fear no more the lightning-flash,
Nor the all-dread thunder-stone;
Fear not slander, censure rash;
Thou hast finished joy and moan;
All lovers young, all lovers must
Consign to thee, and come to dust.

No exorciser harm thee!
Nor no witchcraft charm thee!
Ghost unlaid forbear thee!
Nothing ill come near thee!
Quiet consummation have;
And renowned be thy grave!

Roses are red
Violets are blue
I'm excited for the Super Bowl
How 'bout you?

My Steelers are gonna kick your butt
and make you bleed
A perfect Sunday
what more could you want or need?

Brown Penny
William Butler Yeats

I whispered, ‘I am too young,’
And then, ‘I am old enough’;
Wherefore I threw a penny
To find out if I might love.
‘Go and love, go and love, young man,
If the lady be young and fair.’
Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny,
I am looped in the loops of her hair.

O love is the crooked thing,
There is nobody wise enough
To find out all that is in it,
For he would be thinking of love
Till the stars had run away
And the shadows eaten the moon.
Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny,
One cannot begin it too soon.

Oh! je voudrais tant que tu te souviennes

Des jours heureux où nous étions amis

En ce temps-là la vie était plus belle,

Et le soleil plus brûlant qu’aujourd’hui

Les feuilles mortes se ramassent à la pelle

Tu vois, je n’ai pas oublié...

Les feuilles mortes se ramassent à la pelle,

Les souvenirs et les regrets aussi

Et le vent du nord les emporte

Dans la nuit froide de l’oubli.

Tu vois, je n’ai pas oublié

La chanson que tu me chantais.





C’est une chanson qui nous ressemble

Toi, tu m’aimais et je t’aimais

Et nous vivions tous deux ensemble

Toi qui m’aimais, moi qui t’aimais

Mais la vie sépare ceux qui s’aiment

Tout doucement, sans faire de bruit

Et la mer efface sur le sable

Les pas des amants désunis.




Les feuilles mortes se ramassent à la pelle,

Les souvenirs et les regrets aussi

Mais mon amour silencieux et fidèle

Sourit toujours et remercie la vie

Je t’aimais tant, tu étais si jolie,

Comment veux-tu que je t’oublie?

En ce temps-là, la vie était plus belle

Et le soleil plus brûlant qu’aujourd’hui

Tu étais ma plus douce amie

Mais je n’ai que faire des regrets

Et la chanson que tu chantais

Toujours, toujours je l’entendrai!





Dead Leaves



Oh, I would like you so much to remember

Those happy days when we were friends, and how

Life in those times was more lovely and tender,

Even the sun shone more brightly than now.

Dead leaves are gathering as in December

You see how one never forgets...

Dead leaves are gathering as in December,

Just like the memories and the regrets.

And then the north wind comes and sweeps them

Into oblivion’s icy night.

You see how I never forgot

That old song that you sang for me.



A song like us, birds of a feather,

You loving me, me loving you,

And we lived happily together,

You loving me, me loving you.

But life tears apart gentle lovers

Who quietly obey their heart,

And the sea invades the sand and covers

The footsteps of those torn apart.



Dead leaves are gathering, dead leaves are piling

Up just like memories and like regrets.

But still my love goes on quietly smiling

Thankful for life and for all that it gets.

I loved you so, you were ever so lovely,

How can I forget? Tell me how!

Life in those times was more sweet and beguiling,

Even the sun shone more brightly than now.

You were my most sweet friend and lover

,But regret is all that I can do,

And I’ll keep on hearing the song

That I used to hear sung by you.

All the Dead Dears


Sylvia Plath



In the Archaeological Museum in Cambridge is a stone


coffin of the fourth century A.D. containing the skeletons


of a woman, a mouse and a shrew. The ankle-bone of the


woman has been slightly gnawed.



Rigged poker -stiff on her back


With a granite grin


This antique museum-cased lady


Lies, companioned by the gimcrack


Relics of a mouse and a shrew


That battened for a day on her ankle-bone.



These three, unmasked now, bear


Dry witness


To the gross eating game


We'd wink at if we didn't hear


Stars grinding, crumb by crumb,


Our own grist down to its bony face.



How they grip us through think and thick,


These barnacle dead!


This lady here's no kin


Of mine, yet kin she is: she'll suck


Blood and whistle my narrow clean


To prove it.


As I think now of her hand,
From the mercury-backed glass


Mother, grandmother, greatgrandmother


Reach hag hands to haul me in,


And an image looms under the fishpond surface


Where the daft father went down


With orange duck-feet winnowing this hair ---



All the long gone darlings: They


Get back, though, soon,


Soon: be it by wakes, weddings,


Childbirths or a family barbecue:


Any touch, taste, tang's


Fit for those outlaws to ride home on,



And to sanctuary: usurping the armchair


Between tick


And tack of the clock, until we go,


Each skulled-and-crossboned Gulliver


Riddled with ghosts, to lie


Deadlocked with them, taking roots as cradles rock.

There is another sky by Emily Dickinson

There is another sky,

Ever serene and fair,

And there is another sunshine,

Though it be darkness there;

Never mind faded forests, Austin,

Never mind silent fields -

Here is a little forest,

Whose leaf is ever green;

Here is a brighter garden,

Where not a frost has been;

In its unfading flowers

I hear the bright bee hum:

Prithee, my brother,

Into my garden come!


Ponder this...Come to a place where nothing has been harmed, nothing ruined by sadness or silent questions, come here to my garden where all is well and nothing can hurt us.

Dream with in a Dream
Edgar Allen Poe


Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow-
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand-
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep- while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem