"Richard Cory" By Edwin Arlington Robinson Whenever Richard Cory went down town, We people one the pavement looked at him: He was a gentleman from sole to crown, Clean favored, and imperially slim. And he was always quietly arrayed, And he was always human when he talked; But still he fluttered pulses when he said, �Good-morning,� and he glittered when he walked. And he was rich - yes, richer than a king - And admirably schooled in every grace: In fine, we thought that he was everything To make us wish that we were in his place. So on we worked, and waited for the light, And went without the meat, and cursed the bread; And Richard Cory, one calm summer night, Went home and put a bullet through his head. "Miniver Cheevy" Also by Edwin Arlington Robinson Miniver Cheevy, child of scorn, Grew lean while he assailed the seasons; He wept that he was ever born, And he had reasons. Miniver loved the days of old When swords were bright and steeds were prancing; The visions of a worrier bold Would set him dancing. Miniver sighed for what was not, And dreamed, and rest from his labors; He dreamed of Thebes and Camelot, And Priam�s neighbors. Miniver mourned the ripe renown That made so many a name so fragrant; He mourned Romance, now on the town, And Art, a vagrant. Miniver loved the Medici, Albeit he had never seen one; He would have sunned incessantly Could he have been one. Miniver cursed the commonplace And eyed the khaki suit with loathing; He missed the mediaeval grace Of iron clothing. Miniver scorned the gold he sought, But sore annoyed was he without it; Miniver thought, and thought, and thought, And thought about it. Miniver Cheevy, born too late, Scratched his head and kept on thinking; Miniver coughed, and called it fate, And kept on drinking. "The Village Blacksmith" By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Under a spreading chestnut tree The village smithy stands; The smith, a mighty man is he, With large and sinewy hands; And the muscles of his brawny arms Are strong as iron bands. His hair is crisp, and black, and long, His face is like the tan; His brown is wet with honest sweat, He earns whate�er he can, And looks the whole world in the face, For he owes not any man. Week in, week out, from morn till night, You can hear his bellows blow; You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, With measured beat and slow, Like a sexton ringing the village bell, When the evening sun is low. And children coming home from school Look in at the open door; They love to see the flaming forge, And hear the bellows roar, And catch the burning sparks that fly Like chaff from a threshing floor. He goes on Sunday to the church And sits among his boys He hears the parson pray and preach, He hears his daughter�s voice, Singing in the village choir, And it makes his heart rejoice. It sounds to him like her mother�s voice, Singing in Paradise! He needs must think of her once more, How in the grave she lies; And with his hard rough hand he wipes A tear out of his eyes. Toiling-rejoicing-sorrowing, Onward through life he goes; Each morning sees some task begin, Each evening sees it close; Something attempted, something done, Has earned a might�s repose. Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, For the lesson thou hast taught! Thus at the flaming forge of life Our fortunes must be wrought; Thus on the sounding anvil shaped Each burning deed and thought! "The Road Not Taken" By Robert Frost Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, 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 bend in the undergrowth; Then took the other, just as fair, 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, And both that morning equally la In leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back. I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I � I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference. "First Fig" By Edna St. Vincent Millay My candle burns at both ends; It will not last the night; But ah, my foes and oh, my friends � It gives a lovely light. "The Voice" By Shel Silverstein There is a voice inside of you That whispers all day long, �I feel that this is right for me, I know that this is wrong.� No teacher, preacher, parents, friend Or wise man can decide What�s right for you � just listen to The voice that speaks inside. "Woulda-Coulda-Shoulda" Also by Shel Silverstein All the Woulda-Coulda-Shouldas Layin� in the sun, Talkin� �bout the things They woulda-coulda-shoulda done� But those Woulda-Coulda-Shouldas All ran away and hid From one little Did. "Mirror" by me She looks in the mirror and thinks, �Who is that I see? �Cause that chick right there, that ain�t me.� That�s some girl who cares what other people think. She�s so worried someone will disapprove she�s scared to even blink. So she wears the clothes that SEVENTEEN says are in style, puts her hair up like all the other girls do, does her makeup wearing a fake smile and tells herself, �This is you.� But this isn�t her, and deep down she knows, she doesn�t like to wear makeup and hates these awful clothes. She�s filled with all this mixed emotion. She doesn�t know what to think amongst all this commotion. She wants to scream, to let it all out. Why must she have so much self-doubt? Why can�t she just be the person everyone wants her to be? And then she says to herself, �Because that�s not me.� She�ll never be able to please everyone else, and by trying to she�ll loose her true self. So with careful thought she changes into what she wants to wear, washes off that awful makeup and takes down her hair. |
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