"The Ruined Maid" By Thomas Hardy

"O 'Melia, my dear, this does everything crown!
Who could have supposed I should meet you in Town?
And whence such fair garments, such prosperi-ty?" -
"O didn't you know I'd been ruined?" said she.

- "You left us in tatters, without shoes or socks,
Tired of digging potatoes, and spudding up docks;
And now you've gay bracelets and bright feathers three!" -
"Yes: that's how we dress when we're ruined," said she.

- "At home in the barton you said 'thee' and 'thou,'
And 'thik oon,' and 'theas oon,' and 't'other'; but now
Your talking quite fits 'ee for high compa-ny!" -
"Some polish is gained with one's ruin," said she.

- "Your hands were like paws then, your face blue and bleak,
But now I'm bewitched by your delicate cheek,
And your little gloves fit as on any la-dy!" -
"We never do work when we're ruined," said she.

- "You used to call home-life a hag-ridden dream,
And you'd sigh, and you'd sock; but at present you seem
To know not of megrims or melancho-ly!" -
"True. There's an advantage in ruin," said she.

- "I wish I had feathers, a fine sweeping gown,
And a delicate face, and could strut about Town!" -
"My dear--a raw country girl, such as you be,
Isn't equal to that. You ain't ruined," said she.

, and First tinkermagic2. "The Ruined Maid" By Thomas Hardy. 2010. video. youtube.comWeb. 7 May 2012. <http://www.youtube.com/results?search_query=the runied maid&oq=the runied maid&aq=f&aqi=&aql=&gs_l=youtube.3...479661.482793.0.483015.15.15.0.0.0.0.89.497.15.15.0...0.0.>.

"Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard" by Thomas Gray

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea,
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds:

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower
The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of such as, wandering near her secret bower,
Molest her ancient solitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,
Where heaves the turf in many a mold'ring heap,
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,
The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed,
The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care:
No children run to lisp their sire's return,
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share,

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke;
How jocund did they drive their team afield!
How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

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.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Awaits alike th' inevitable hour:-
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye Proud, impute to these the fault
If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise,
Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

Can storied urn or animated bust
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Can Honor's voice provoke the silent dust,
Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Death?

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;
Hands, that the rod of empire might have swayed,
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre:

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page,
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll;
Chill Penury repressed their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the soul.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene
The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear:
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast
The little tyrant of his fields withstood,
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,
Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood.

Th' applause of list'ning senates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,
And read their history in a nation's eyes,

Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed alone
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined;
  Forbadeto wade through slaughter to a throne,
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind,

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,
Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride
With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,
Their sober wishes never learned to stray;
Along the cool sequestered vale of life
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect
Some frail memorial still erected nigh,
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked,
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd Muse,
The place of fame and elegy supply:
And many a holy text around she strews,
That teach the rustic moralist to die.

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,
This pleasing anxious being e'er resigned,
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
Nor cast one longing lingering look behind?

On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
Some pious drops the closing eye requires;
E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,
E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.

For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead,
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;
If chance, by lonely contemplation led,
Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, --

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,
Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn
Brushing with hasty steps the dews away,
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn;

'There at the foot of yonder nodding beech
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high.
His listless length at noontide would he stretch,
And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

'Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,
Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove;
Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn,
Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love.

'One morn I missed him on the costumed hill,
Along the heath, and near his favorite tree;
Another came; nor yet beside the rill,
Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;

'The next with dirges due in sad array
Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne,-
Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay
Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.'

The Epitaph

Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth
A youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown.
Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth,
And Melancholy marked him for her own.

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,
Heaven did a recompense as largely send:
He gave to Misery all he had, a tear,
He gained from Heaven ('twas all he wished) a friend.

No farther seek his merits to disclose,
Or draw his frailties from their dread abode
(There they alike in trembling hope repose),
The bosom of his Father and his God.

, and First brychar66. "Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard" by Thomas Gray . 2008. video. "Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard" by Thomas Gray Web. 7 May 2012. <http://www.youtube.com/results?search_query=elegy written in a country churchyard&oq=elegy written &aq=0&aqi=g2&aql=&gs_l=youtube.1.0.0l2.10650.17417.0.18847.14.8.0.6.6.0.38.282.8.8.0...0.0.>.

"The Poplar Field" By W. Cowper

The poplars are felled, farewell to the shade
And the whispering sound of the cool colonnade:
The winds play no longer and sing in the leaves,
Nor Ouse on his bosom their image receives.

Twelve years have elapsed since I first took a view
Of my favorite field, and the bank where they grew,
And now in the grass behold they are laid,
And the tree is my seat that once lent me a shade.

The blackbird has fled to another retreat
Where the hazels afford him a screen from the heat;
And the scene where his melody charmed me before
Resounds with his sweet-flowing ditty no more.

My fugitive years are all hasting away,
And I must ere long lie as lowly as they,
With a turf on my breast and a stone at my head,
Ere another such grove shall arise in its stead.

'Tis a sight to engage me, if anything can,
To muse on the perishing pleasures of man;
Short-lived as we are, our enjoyments, I see,
Have a still shorter date, and die sooner than we. 

, and First tommiehart1. "The Poplar Field" By W. Cowper . 2012. video. youtube.comWeb. 7 May 2012. <http://www.youtube.com/results?search_query=the poplar field&sa=X&spell=1&search=Search&oi=spell>.

"My Last Duchess" by Robert Browning

That’s my last Duchess painted on the wall,
Looking as if she were alive. I call
That piece a wonder, now: Fra Pandolf’s hands
Worked busily a day, and there she stands.
Will’t please you sit and look at her? I said
“Fra Pandolf” by design, for never read
Strangers like you that pictured countenance,
The depth and passion of its earnest glance,
But to myself they turned (since none puts by
The curtain I have drawn for you, but I)
And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,
How such a glance came there; so, not the first
Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, ’twas not
Her husband’s presence only, called that spot
Of joy into the Duchess’ cheek: perhaps
Fra Pandolf chanced to say “Her mantle laps
Over my lady’s wrist too much,” or “Paint
Must never hope to reproduce the faint
Half-flush that dies along her throat”: such stuff
Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough
For calling up that spot of joy. She had
A heart—how shall I say?—too soon made glad,
Too easily impressed; she liked whate’er
She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.
Sir, ’twas all one! My favor at her breast,
The dropping of the daylight in the West,
The bough of cherries some officious fool
Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule
She rode with round the terrace—all and each
Would draw from her alike the approving speech,
Or blush, at least. She thanked men,—good! but thanked
Somehow—I know not how—as if she ranked
My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name
With anybody’s gift. Who’d stoop to blame
This sort of trifling? Even had you skill
In speech—(which I have not)—to make your will
Quite clear to such an one, and say, “Just this
Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss,
Or there exceed the mark”—and if she let
Herself be lessened so, nor plainly set
Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse,
—E’en then would be some stooping; and I choose
Never to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt,
Whene’er I passed her; but who passed without
Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands;
Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands
As if alive. Will’t please you rise? We’ll meet
The company below, then. I repeat,
The Count your master’s known munificence
Is ample warrant that no just pretense
Of mine for dowry will be disallowed;
Though his fair daughter’s self, as I avowed
At starting, is my object. Nay, we’ll go
Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though,
Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity,
Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!

, and First SpokenVerse. "My Last Duchess" by Robert Browning. 2010. video. youtube.comWeb. 7 May 2012. <http://www.youtube.com/results?search_query=my last duchess robert browning&oq=my last duchess&aq=1&aqi=g10&aql=&gs_l=youtube.1.1.0l10.23598.30794.0.34007.15.10.0.5.5.0.39.348.10.10.0...0.0.>.

"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. 

 

, and First SpokenVerse. "London" by William Blake. 2009. video. youtube.comWeb. 7 May 2012. <http://www.youtube.com/results?search_query=london by william blake&oq=london by &aq=2&aqi=g10&aql=&gs_l=youtube.1.2.0l10.96147.99169.0.101603.10.8.0.2.2.0.89.376.8.8.0...0.0.>.

''Dover Beach'' By Matthew Arnold

The sea is calm to-night.
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Upon the straits; on the French coast the light
Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand;
Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!
Only, from the long line of spray
Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land,
Listen! you hear the grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness in.

Sophocles long ago
Heard it on the Agaean, and it brought
Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow
Of human misery; we
Find also in the sound a thought,
Hearing it by this distant northern sea.

The Sea of Faith
Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled.
But now I only hear
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world.

Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.

, and First JustAudio2008. ''Dover Beach'' By Matthew Arnold . 2008. video. youtube.comWeb. 7 May 2012. <http://www.youtube.com/results?search_query=dover beach matthew arnold&oq=dover bea&aq=1&aqi=g10&aql=&gs_l=youtube.1.1.0l10.205048.207315.0.210975.9.9.0.0.0.0.58.336.9.9.0...0.0.>.

"Eating Poetry" By Mark Strand

Ink runs from the corners of my mouth. 
There is no happiness like mine. 
I have been eating poetry. 

The librarian does not believe what she sees. 
Her eyes are sad 
and she walks with her hands in her dress. 

The poems are gone. 
The light is dim. 
The dogs are on the basement stairs and coming up. 

Their eyeballs roll, 
their blond legs burn like brush. 
The poor librarian begins to stamp her feet and weep.
 
She does not understand. 
When I get on my knees and lick her hand, 
she screams. 

I am a new man. 
I snarl at her and bark. 
I romp with joy in the bookish dark. 

, and First poetictouch2012. "Eating Poetry" By Mark Strand. 2012. video. youtube.comWeb. 7 May 2012. <http://www.youtube.com/results?search_query=eating poetry&oq=eating poetry&aq=f&aqi=g2&aql=&gs_l=youtube.3..0l2.192867.196238.0.196428.13.9.0.4.4.0.109.379.8j1.9.0...0.0.>.

"Disillusionment of Ten O'Clock" By Wallace Stevens

The houses are haunted
By white night-gowns.
None are green,
Or purple with green rings,
Or green with yellow rings,
Or yellow with blue rings.
None of them are strange,
With socks of lace
And beaded centuries.
People are not going
To dream of baboons and periwinkles.
Only, here and there, an old sailor,
Drunk and asleep in his boots,
Catches Tigers
In red weather. 

, and First WorldClassPoetry. "Disillusionment of Ten O'Clock" By Wallace Stevens. 2010. video. youtube.comWeb. 7 May 2012. <http://www.youtube.com/results?search_query=disillusionment of ten o'clock&oq=disillusionment &aq=0&aqi=g1&aql=&gs_l=youtube.1.0.0.24861.35707.0.37400.16.7.0.9.9.0.42.220.7.7.0...0.0.>.

"Dolor" By Theodore Roethke

I have known the inexorable sadness of pencils,
Neat in their boxes, dolor of pad and paper weight,
All the misery of manilla folders and mucilage,
Desolation in immaculate public places,
Lonely reception room, lavatory, switchboard,
The unalterable pathos of basin and pitcher,
Ritual of multigraph, paper-clip, comma,
Endless duplication of lives and objects.
And I have seen dust from the walls of institutions,
Finer than flour, alive, more dangerous than silica,
Sift, almost invisible, through long afternoons of tedium,
Dropping a fine film on nails and delicate eyebrows,
Glazing the pale hair, the duplicate grey standard faces. 

, and First adamgottschalk. "Dolor" By Theodore Roethke. 2010. video. youtube.comWeb. 7 May 2012. <http://www.youtube.com/results?search_query=dolor poem&oq=dolor poem&aq=f&aqi=&aql=&gs_l=youtube.3...2231.8772.0.8881.9.7.2.0.0.0.43.225.7.7.0...0.0.>.

"Richard Cory" By Edwin Arlington Robinson

Whenever Richard Cory went down town,
We people on 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 though his head. 

, and First SpokenVerse. "Richard Cory" By Edwin Arlington Robinson. 2009. video. youtube.comWeb. 7 May 2012. <http://www.youtube.com/results?search_query=richard cory poem&oq=Richard Cory &aq=1&aqi=g10&aql=&gs_l=youtube.1.1.0l10.7730.7730.0.9823.1.1.0.0.0.0.87.87.1.1.0...0.0.>.

"Naming of Parts" By Henry Reed

To-day we have naming of parts. Yesterday,
We had daily cleaning. And to-morrow morning,
We shall have what to do after firing. But to-day,
To-day we have naming of parts. Japonica
Glistens like coral in all of the neighboring gardens,
          And to-day we have naming of parts.

This is the lower sling swivel. And this
Is the upper sling swivel, whose use you will see,
When you are given your slings. And this is the piling swivel
 Which in your case you have not got. The branches
Hold in the gardens their silent, eloquent gestures,
          Which in our case we have not got.

This is the safety-catch, which is always released
With an easy flick of the thumb. And please do not let me
See anyone using his finger. You can do it quite easy
If you have any strength in your thumb. The blossoms
Are fragile and motionless, never letting anyone see
          Any of them using their finger.

And this you can see is the bolt. The purpose of this
Is to open the breech, as you see. We can slide it
Rapidly backwards and forwards: we call this
Easing the spring. And rapidly backwards and forwards
The early bees are assaulting and fumbling the flowers:
          They call it easing the Spring.

They call it easing the Spring: it is perfectly easy
If you have any strength in your thumb: like the bolt,
And the breech, and the cocking-piece, and the point of balance,
Which in our case we have not got; and the almond-blossom
Silent in all of the gardens and the bees going backwards and forwards,
          For to-day we have naming of parts.

, and First wedrarian. "Naming of Parts" By Henry Reed. 2008. video. youtube.comWeb. 7 May 2012. <http://www.youtube.com/results?search_query=naming of parts&oq=naming of parts&aq=f&aqi=g2&aql=&gs_l=youtube.3..0l2.297254.300867.0.301088.15.9.0.6.6.0.160.490.8j1.9.0...0.0.>.

"Latin Women Pray" By Judith Ortiz (Cofer)

Latin women pray
In incense sweet churches
They pray in Spanish to an Anglo God
with a Jewish heritage.
And this great white father
Imperturbable in his marble pedestal
looks down upon his brown daughters
votive candles shinning like lust
in his all seeing eyes
unmoved by their persistent prayers.

Yet year after year
before his image they kneel
Margarita Josefina Maria and Isabel
all fervently hoping
that if not omnipotent
at least he be bilingual.

, and First claudiapog08. "Latin Women Pray" By Judith Ortiz (Cofer). 2012. video. youtube.com

"Night Sounds" By Carolyn Kizer

The moonlight on my bed keeps me awake;
Living alone now, aware of the voices of evening,
A child weeping at nightmares, the faint love-cries of a woman,
Everything tinged by terror or nostalgia.

No heavy, impassive back to nudge with one foot
While coaxing, "Wake up and hold me,"
When the moon's creamy beauty is transformed
Into a map of impersonal desolation.
.
But, restless in this mock dawn of moonlight.
That so chills the spirit, I alter our history:
You were never able to lie quite peacefully at my side,
Not the night through. Always withholding something.

Awake before morning, restless and uneasy,
Trying not to disturb me, you would leave my bed
While I lay there rigidly, feigning sleep.
Still - the night was nearly over, the light not as cold
As a full cup of moonlight.

And there were the lovely times when, to the skies' cold No
You cried to me, Yes! Impaled me with affirmation.
Now, when I call out in fear, not in love, there is no answer.
Nothing speaks in the dark but the distant voices,
A child with the moon on his face, a dog's hollow cadence.

, and First e546576. "Night Sounds" By Carolyn Kizer. 2010. video. youtube.comWeb. 7 May 2012. <http://www.youtube.com/results?search_query="Night Sounds" by carolyn&oq="Night Sounds" by carolyn&aq=f&aqi=&aql=&gs_l=youtube.3...8175.17420.0.17625.11.11.0.0.0.0.29.264.11.11.0...0.0.>.

"Loveliest of Trees, the Cherry Now" By A.E Housman

LOVELIEST of trees, the cherry now

Is hung with bloom along the bough,

And stands about the woodland ride

Wearing white for Eastertide.

Now, of my threescore years and ten,

Twenty will not come again,

And take from seventy springs a score,

It only leaves me fifty more.

And since to look at things in bloom

Fifty springs are little room,

About the woodlands I will go to see the cherry hung with snow.

, and First JustAudio2008. "Loveliest of Trees the Cherry Now" By A.E. 2008. video. youtube.comWeb. 7 May 2012. <http://www.youtube.com/results?search_query="Loveliest of Trees the Cherry Now" By A.E&sa=X&spell=1&search=Search&oi=spell>.

"The Lives of the Heart" by Jane Hirshfield

Are ligneous, muscular, chemical.
Wear birch-colored feathers,
green tunnels of horse-tail reed.
Wear calcified spirals, Fibonaccian spheres.
Are edible;are glassy;are clay;blue schist.
Can be burned as tallow, as coal,
can be skinned for garnets, for shoes.
Cast shadows or light;
shuffle;snort;cry out in passion.
Are salt, are bitter,
tear sweet grass with their teeth.
Step silently into blue needle-fall at dawn.
Thrash in the net until hit. .
Rise up as cities, as serpentined magma, as maples,
hiss lava-red into the sea.
Leave the strange kiss of their bodies
in Burgess Shale. Can be found, can be lost,
can be carried, broken, sung.
Lie dormant until they are opened by ice,
by drought. Go blind in the service of lace.
Are starving, are sated, indifferent, curious, mad.
Are stamped out in plastic, in tin.

Are stubborn, are careful, are slipshod,
are strung on the blue backs of flies
on the black backs of cows.
Wander the vacant whale-roads, the white thickets
heavy with slaughter.
Wander the fragrant carpets of alpine flowers.,
Not one is not held in the arms of the rest, to blossom.
 Not one is not given to ecstasy's lions.
Not one does not grieve.
Each of them opens and closes, closes and opens
the heavy gate --violent, serene, consenting, suffering it all.

, and First roaringout. "The Lives of the Heart" by Jane Hirshfield. 2012. video. youtube.comWeb. 7 May 2012. <http://www.youtube.com/results?search_query="The Lives of the Heart" by Jane Hirshfield&oq="The Lives of the Heart" by Jane Hirshfield&aq=f&aqi=&aql=&gs_l=youtube.12...150273.150273.0.150907.1.1.0.0.0.0.45.45.1.1.0...0.0.>.

"Chemistry Experiment" By Bart Edelman

We listened intently to the professor,
Followed each one of her instructions,
Read through the textbook twice,
Wore lab coats and safety goggles,
Mixed the perfect chemical combinations
In the proper amount and order.
We thought we were a completely success.
And then the flash of light,
The loud, perplexing explosion,
The black rope of smoke,
Rising freely above our singed hair.
Someone in another lab down the hallway
Phoned the local fire department
Which arrived lickety-split
With the hazardous waste crew,
And they assessed the accident,
Deciding we were out of danger.
It was the talk of the campus,
For many weeks afterwords.
We, However, became so disillusioned
The we immediately dropped the course
And slowly retreated from each other.
The very idea we could have done
More damage than we actually did--
Blown ourselves up and the building
From the base of its foundation--
Shook us, like nothing had before.
And even now, years later,
When anyone still asks about you,
I get this sick feeling in my stomach
And wonder what really happened
To all the elementary matter.

, and First roland4pr. "Chemistry Experiment" By Bart Edelman . 2012. video. youtube.comWeb. 7 May 2012. <http://www.youtube.com/results?search_query="Chemistry Experiment" By Bart Edelman &oq="Chemistry Experiment" By Bart Edelman &aq=f&aqi=&aql=&gs_l=youtube.12...110439.117006.0.117577.2.2.0.0.0.0.27.28.2.2.0...0.0.>.

"next to of course god america i" By E.E. Cummings

"next to of course god america i
love you land of the pilgrims' and so forth oh
say can you see by the dawn's early my
country 'tis of centuries come and go
and are no more what of it we should worry
in every language even deafanddumb
thy sons acclaim your glorious name by gorry
by jingo by gee by gosh by gum
why talk of beauty what could be more beaut-
iful than these heroic happy dead
who rushed like lions to the roaring slaughter
they did not stop to think they died instead
then shall the voice of liberty be mute?"

He spoke. And drank rapidly a glass of water



, and First Shanenathaniel1. "next to of course god america i" By E.E. Cummings. 2009. video. youtube.comWeb. 7 May 2012. <http://www.youtube.com/results?search_query="next to of course god america i" By E.E. Cummings&oq="next to of course god america i" By E.E. Cummings&aq=f&aqi=&aql=&gs_l=youtube.12...176208.176208.0.176851.1.1.0.0.0.0.50.50.1.1.0...0.0.>.

Green Grow the Rashes , O By Robert Burns

There's nought but care on ev'ry han',
In ev'ry hour that passes, O:
What signifies the life o' man,
An' 'twere na for the lasses, O.

The war'ly race may riches chase,
An' riches still may fly them, O;
An' tho' at last they catch them fast,
Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O.

But gie me a cannie hour at e'en,
My arms about my dearie, O;
An' war'ly cares, an' war'ly men,
May a' gae tapsalteerie, O!

For you sae douce, ye sneer at this;
Ye're nought but senseless asses, O:
The wisest man the warl' e'er saw,
He dearly lov'd the lasses, O.

Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears
Her noblest work she classes, O:
Her prentice han' she try'd on man,
An' then she made the lasses, O.

, and First Lauchinrain. Green Grow the Rashes, O By Robert Burns. 2009. video. n.p. Web. 7 May 2012. <http://www.youtube.com/results?search_query=Green Grow the Rashes, O By Robert Burns&oq=Green Grow the Rashes, O By Robert Burns&aq=f&aqi=&aql=&gs_l=youtube.12...445784.445784.0.446733.1.1.0.0.0.0.48.48.1.1.0...0.0.>.

"The Lamb" By William Blake

The Lamb

         Little Lamb, who made thee?

         Dost thou know who made thee?

Gave thee life, and bid thee feed

By the stream and o'er the mead;

Gave thee clothing of delight,

Softest clothing, woolly, bright;

Gave thee such a tender voice,

Making all the vales rejoice?

         Little Lamb, who made thee?

         Dost thou know who made thee?

         Little Lamb, I'll tell thee,

         Little Lamb, I'll tell thee:

He is called by thy name,

For he calls himself a Lamb.

He is meek, and he is mild;

He became a little child.

I a child, and thou a lamb.

We are called by his name.

         Little Lamb, God bless thee!

         Little Lamb, God bless thee! 

 

, and First Learnfree2007. the lamb by william blake. 2010. video. n.p. Web. 7 May 2012. <http://www.youtube.com/results?search_query=the lamb by william blake&oq=the lamb by william blake&aq=f&aqi=g2&aql=&gs_l=youtube.12..0l2.879998.879998.0.880780.1.1.0.0.0.0.49.49.1.1.0...0.0.>.

"Jabberwocky" By Lewis Carroll

`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
  Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
  And the mome raths outgrabe.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
  The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
  The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand:
  Long time the manxome foe he sought --
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
  And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,
  The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
  And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through
  The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
  He went galumphing back.

"And, has thou slain the Jabberwock?
  Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!'
  He chortled in his joy.

`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
  Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
  And the mome raths outgrabe. 

Jabberwocky. 2008. video. n.p. Web. 7 May 2012. <http://www.youtube.com/results?search_query=jabberwocky&oq=jabberwock&aq=0&aqi=g10&aql=&gs_l=youtube.1.0.0l10.4531.8943.0.10583.10.6.0.4.4.0.112.487.4j2.6.0...0.0.>.