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Annabel Lee

by Edgar Allan Poe
  It was many and many a year ago,
    In a kingdom by the sea,
  That a maiden there lived whom you may know
    By the name of ANNABEL LEE;
  And this maiden she lived with no other thought
    Than to love and be loved by me.

  I was a child and she was a child,
    In this kingdom by the sea:
  But we loved with a love that was more than love–
    I and my ANNABEL LEE;
  With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
    Coveted her and me.

  And this was the reason that, long ago,
    In this kingdom by the sea,
  A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
    My beautiful ANNABEL LEE;
  So that her highborn kinsmen came
    And bore her away from me,
  To shut her up in a sepulchre
    In this kingdom by the sea.

  The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
    Went envying her and me–
  Yes!–that was the reason (as all men know,
    In this kingdom by the sea)
  That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
    Chilling and killing my ANNABEL LEE.

  But our love it was stronger by far than the love
    Of those who were older than we–
    Of many far wiser than we–
  And neither the angels in heaven above,
    Nor the demons down under the sea,
  Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
    Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE.

  For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
    Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE;
  And the stars never rise but I see the bright eyes
    Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE;
  And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
  Of my darling, my darling, my life and my bride,
    In her sepulchre there by the sea–
    In her tomb by the side of the sea.

THE WHIPPOORWILL AND I

by Horatio Alger, Jr.

In the hushed hours of night, when the air quite still,
I hear the strange cry of the lone whippoorwill,
Who Chants, without ceasing, that wonderful trill,
Of which the sole burden is still, “Whip-poor-Will.”

And why should I whip him? Strange visitant,
Has he been playing truant this long summer day?
I listened a moment; more clear and more shrill
Rang the voice of the bird, as he cried, “Whip-poor-Will.”

But what has poor Will done? I ask you once more;
I’ll whip him, don’t fear, if you’ll tell me what for.
I paused for an answer; o’er valley and hill
Rang the voice of the bird, as he cried, “Whip-poor-Will.”

Has he come to your dwelling, by night or by day,
And snatched the young birds from their warm nest away?
I paused for an answer; o’er valley and hill
Rang the voice of the bird, as he cried, “Whip-poor-Will.”

Well, well, I can hear you, don’t have any fears,
I can hear what is constantly dinned in my ears.
The obstinate bird, with his wonderful trill,
Still made but one answer, and that, “Whip-poor-Will.”

But what HAS poor Will done? I prithee explain;
I’m out of all patience, don’t mock me again.
The obstinate bird, with his wonderful trill,
Still made the same answer, and that, “Whip-poor-Will.”

Well, have your own way, then; but if you won’t tell,
I’ll shut down the window, and bid you farewell;
But of one thing be sure, I won’t whip him until
You give me some reason for whipping poor Will.

I listened a moment, as if for reply,
But nothing was heard but the bird’s mocking cry.
I caught the faint echo from valley and hill;   
It breathed the same burden, that strange “Whip-poor-Will.”

Specimen of an Induction to a Poem

by John Keats
Lo! I must tell a tale of chivalry;
For large white plumes are dancing in mine eye.
Not like the formal crest of latter days:
But bending in a thousand graceful ways;
So graceful, that it seems no mortal hand,
Or e’en the touch of Archimago’s wand,
Could charm them into such an attitude.
We must think rather, that in playful mood,
Some mountain breeze had turned its chief delight,
To show this wonder of its gentle might.
Lo! I must tell a tale of chivalry;
For while I muse, the lance points slantingly
Athwart the morning air: some lady sweet,
Who cannot feel for cold her tender feet,
From the worn top of some old battlement
Hails it with tears, her stout defender sent:
And from her own pure self no joy dissembling,
Wraps round her ample robe with happy trembling.
Sometimes, when the good Knight his rest would take,
It is reflected, clearly, in a lake,
With the young ashen boughs, ‘gainst which it rests,
And th’ half seen mossiness of linnets’ nests.
Ah! shall I ever tell its cruelty,
When the fire flashes from a warrior’s eye,
And his tremendous hand is grasping it,
And his dark brow for very wrath is knit?
Or when his spirit, with more calm intent,
Leaps to the honors of a tournament,
And makes the gazers round about the ring
Stare at the grandeur of the balancing?
No, no! this is far off:–then how shall I
Revive the dying tones of minstrelsy,
Which linger yet about lone gothic arches,
In dark green ivy, and among wild larches?
How sing the splendour of the revelries,
When buts of wine are drunk off to the lees?
And that bright lance, against the fretted wall,
Beneath the shade of stately banneral,
Is slung with shining cuirass, sword, and shield?
Where ye may see a spur in bloody field.
Light-footed damsels move with gentle paces
Round the wide hall, and show their happy faces;
Or stand in courtly talk by fives and sevens:
Like those fair stars that twinkle in the heavens.
Yet must I tell a tale of chivalry:
Or wherefore comes that knight so proudly by?
Wherefore more proudly does the gentle knight,
Rein in the swelling of his ample might?

Spenser! thy brows are arched, open, kind,
And come like a clear sun-rise to my mind;
And always does my heart with pleasure dance,
When I think on thy noble countenance:
Where never yet was ought more earthly seen
Than the pure freshness of thy laurels green.
Therefore, great bard, I not so fearfully
Call on thy gentle spirit to hover nigh
My daring steps: or if thy tender care,
Thus startled unaware,
Be jealous that the foot of other wight
Should madly follow that bright path of light
Trac’d by thy lov’d Libertas; he will speak,
And tell thee that my prayer is very meek;
That I will follow with due reverence,
And start with awe at mine own strange pretence.
Him thou wilt hear; so I will rest in hope
To see wide plains, fair trees and lawny slope:
The morn, the eve, the light, the shade, the flowers:
Clear streams, smooth lakes, and overlooking towers.

Last Words

by Horatio Alger, Jr.

“Dear Charlie,” breathed a soldier,
  “O comrade true and tried,
Who in the heat of battle
  Pressed closely to my side;
I feel that I am stricken,
  My life is ebbing fast;
I fain would have you with me,
  Dear Charlie, till the last.

“It seems so sudden, Charlie,
  To think to-morrow’s sun
Will look upon me lifeless,
  And I not twenty-one!
I little dreamed this morning,
  Twould bring my last campaign;
God’s ways are not as our ways,
  And I will not complain.

“There’s one at home, dear Charlie,
  Will mourn for me when dead,
Whose heart–it is a mother’s–
  Can scarce be comforted.
You’ll write and tell her, Charlie,
  With my dear love, that I
Fought bravely as a soldier should,
  And died as he should die.

“And you will tell her, Charlie,
  She must not grieve too much,
Our country claims our young lives,
  For she has need of such.
And where is he would falter,
  Or turn ignobly back,
When Duty’s voice cries ‘Forward,’
  And Honor lights the track ?

“And there’s another, Charlie
  (His voice became more low),
When thoughts of HER come o’er me,
  It makes it hard to go.
This locket in my bosom,
  She gave me just before
I left my native village
  For the fearful scenes of war.

“Give her this message, Charlie,
  Sent with my dying breath,
To her and to my banner
  I’m ‘faithful unto death.’
And if, in that far country
  Which I am going to,
Our earthly ties may enter,
  I’ll there my love renew.

“Come nearer, closer, Charlie,
  My head I fain would rest,
It must be for the last time,
  Upon your faithful breast.
Dear friend, I cannot tell you
  How in my heart I feel
The depth of your devotion,
  Your friendship strong as steel.

“We’ve watched and camped together
  In sunshine and in rain;
We’ve shared the toils and perils
  Of more than one campaign;
And when my tired feet faltered,
  Beneath the noontide heat,
Your words sustained my courage,
  Gave new strength to my feet.

“And once,– ’twas at Antietam,–
  Pressed hard by thronging foes,
I almost sank exhausted
  Beneath their cruel blows,–
When you, dear friend, undaunted,
  With headlong courage threw
Your heart into the contest,
  And safely brought me through.

“My words are weak, dear Charlie,
  My breath is growing scant;
Your hand upon my heart there,
  Can you not hear me pant?
Your thoughts I know will wander
  Sometimes to where I lie–
How dark it grows! True comrade
  And faithful friend, good-by!”

A moment, and he lay there
  A statue, pale and calm.
His youthful head reclining
  Upon his comrade’s arm.
His limbs upon the greensward
  Were stretched in careless grace,
And by the fitful moon was seen
  A smile upon his face.

by Edgar Allan Poe

Beloved! amid the earnest woes
    That crowd around my earthly path–
  (Drear path, alas! where grows
  Not even one lonely rose)–
    My soul at least a solace hath
  In dreams of thee, and therein knows
  An Eden of bland repose.

  And thus thy memory is to me
    Like some enchanted far-off isle
  In some tumultuous sea–
  Some ocean throbbing far and free
    With storm–but where meanwhile
  Serenest skies continually
    Just o’er that one bright inland smile.

by Edgar Allan Poe

  The bowers whereat, in dreams, I see
    The wantonest singing birds,

  Are lips–and all thy melody
    Of lip-begotten words–

  Thine eyes, in Heaven of heart enshrined
    Then desolately fall,
  O God! on my funereal mind
    Like starlight on a pall–

  Thy heart–_thy_ heart!–I wake and sigh,
    And sleep to dream till day
  Of the truth that gold can never buy–
    Of the baubles that it may.

The Secret

by Emily Dickinson

Some things that fly there be, –
Birds, hours, the bumble-bee:
Of these no elegy.

Some things that stay there be, –
Grief, hills, eternity:
Nor this behooveth me.

There are, that resting, rise.
Can I expound the skies?
How still the riddle lies!

Miss Billy’s Decision, CHAPTER XIII

by Eleanor H. Porter

CYRIL AND A WEDDING
The twelfth was a beautiful day.  Clear, frosty
air set the blood to tingling and the eyes to sparkling,
even if it were not your wedding day; while
if it were–

It _was_ Marie Hawthorn’s wedding day, and
certainly her eyes sparkled and her blood tingled
as she threw open the window of her room and
breathed long and deep of the fresh morning air
before going down to breakfast.

“They say `Happy is the bride that the sun
shines on,’ ” she whispered softly to an English
sparrow that cocked his eye at her from a
neighboring tree branch.  “As if a bride wouldn’t
be happy, sun or no sun,” she scoffed tenderly,
as she turned to go down-stairs.

As it happens, however, tingling blood and
sparkling eyes are a matter of more than weather,
or even weddings, as was proved a little later
when the telephone bell rang.

Kate answered the ring.

“Hullo, is that you, Kate?” called a despairing
voice.

“Yes.  Good morning, Bertram.  Isn’t this
a fine day for the wedding?”

“Fine!  Oh, yes, I suppose so, though I must
confess I haven’t noticed it–and you wouldn’t,
if you had a lunatic on your hands.”

“A lunatic!”

“Yes.  Maybe you have, though.  Is Marie
rampaging around the house like a wild creature,
and asking ten questions and making twenty
threats to the minute?”

“Certainly not!  Don’t be absurd, Bertram.
What do you mean?”

“See here, Kate, that show comes off at twelve
sharp, doesn’t it?”

“Show, indeed!” retorted Kate, indignantly.
“The _wedding_ is at noon sharp–as the best man
should know very well.”

“All right; then tell Billy, please, to see that it
is sharp, or I won’t answer for the consequences.”

“What do you mean?  What is the matter?”

“Cyril.  He’s broken loose at last.  I’ve been
expecting it all along.  I’ve simply marvelled at
the meekness with which he has submitted himself
to be tied up with white ribbons and topped
with roses.”

“Nonsense, Bertram!”

“Well, it amounts to that.  Anyhow, he thinks
it does, and he’s wild.  I wish you could have
heard the thunderous performance on his piano
with which he woke me up this morning.  Billy
says he plays everything–his past, present,
and future.  All is, if he was playing his future
this morning, I pity the girl who’s got to live it
with him.”

“Bertram!”

Bertram chuckled remorselessly.

“Well, I do.  But I’ll warrant he wasn’t
playing his future this morning.  He was playing his
present–the wedding.  You see, he’s just waked
up to the fact that it’ll be a perfect orgy of women
and other confusion, and he doesn’t like it.  All
the samee,{sic} I’ve had to assure him just fourteen
times this morning that the ring, the license, the
carriage, the minister’s fee, and my sanity are
all O. K.  When he isn’t asking questions he’s
making threats to snake the parson up there an
hour ahead of time and be off with Marie before a
soul comes.”

“What an absurd idea!”

“Cyril doesn’t think so.  Indeed, Kate, I’ve
had a hard struggle to convince him that the
guests wouldn’t think it the most delightful
experience of their lives if they should come and
find the ceremony over with and the bride gone.”

“Well, you remind Cyril, please, that there
are other people besides himself concerned in
this wedding,” observed Kate, icily.

“I have,” purred Bertram, “and he says all
right, let them have it, then.  He’s gone now to
look up proxy marriages, I believe.”

“Proxy marriages, indeed!  Come, come, Bertram,
I’ve got something to do this morning
besides to stand here listening to your nonsense.
See that you and Cyril get here on time–that’s
all!”  And she hung up the receiver with an
impatient jerk.

She turned to confront the startled eyes of the
bride elect.

“What is it?  Is anything wrong–with
Cyril?” faltered Marie.

Kate laughed and raised her eyebrows slightly.

“Nothing but a little stage fright, my dear.”

“Stage fright!”

“Yes.  Bertram says he’s trying to find some
one to play his r<o^>le, I believe, in the ceremony.”

“_Mrs. Hartwell!_”

At the look of dismayed terror that came into
Marie’s face, Mrs. Hartwell laughed reassuringly.

“There, there, dear child, don’t look so horror-
stricken.  There probably never was a man yet
who wouldn’t have fled from the wedding part
of his marriage if he could; and you know how
Cyril hates fuss and feathers.  The wonder to me
is that he’s stood it as long as he has.  I thought I
saw it coming, last night at the rehearsal–and
now I know I did.”

Marie still looked distressed.

“But he never said–I thought–”  She
stopped helplessly.

“Of course he didn’t, child.  He never said
anything but that he loved you, and he never
thought anything but that you were going to be
his.  Men never do–till the wedding day.  Then
they never think of anything but a place to run,”
she finished laughingly, as she began to arrange
on a stand the quantity of little white boxes
waiting for her.

“But if he’d told me–in time, I wouldn’t have
had a thing–but the minister,” faltered Marie.

“And when you think so much of a pretty
wedding, too?  Nonsense!  It isn’t good for a
man, to give up to his whims like that!”

Marie’s cheeks grew a deeper pink.  Her
nostrils dilated a little.

“It wouldn’t be a `whim,’ Mrs. Hartwell, and
I should be _glad_ to give up,” she said with decision.

Mrs. Hartwell laughed again, her amused eyes
on Marie’s face.

“Dear me, child! don’t you know that if men
had their way, they’d–well, if men married
men there’d never be such a thing in the world
as a shower bouquet or a piece of wedding cake!”

There was no reply.  A little precipitately
Marie turned and hurried away.  A moment
later she was laying a restraining hand on Billy,
who was filling tall vases with superb long-stemmed
roses in the kitchen.

“Billy, please,” she panted, “couldn’t we
do without those?  Couldn’t we send them to
some–some hospital?–and the wedding cake,
too, and–”

“The wedding cake–to some _hospital!_”

“No, of course not–to the hospital.  It
would make them sick to eat it, wouldn’t it?”
That there was no shadow of a smile on Marie’s
face showed how desperate, indeed, was her state
of mind.  “I only meant that I didn’t want them
myself, nor the shower bouquet, nor the rooms
darkened, nor little Kate as the flower girl–and
would you mind very much if I asked you not
to be my maid of honor?”

“_Marie!_”

Marie covered her face with her hands then and
began to sob brokenly; so there was nothing for
Billy to do but to take her into her arms with
soothing little murmurs and pettings.  By degrees,
then, the whole story came out.

Billy almost laughed–but she almost cried,
too.  Then she said:

“Dearie, I don’t believe Cyril feels or acts
half so bad as Bertram and Kate make out, and,
anyhow, if he did, it’s too late now to–to send
the wedding cake to the hospital, or make any
other of the little changes you suggest.”  Billy’s
lips puckered into a half-smile, but her eyes were
grave.  “Besides, there are your music pupils
trimming the living-room this minute with evergreen,
there’s little Kate making her flower-girl
wreath, and Mrs. Hartwell stacking cake boxes
in the hall, to say nothing of Rosa gloating over
the best china in the dining-room, and Aunt
Hannah putting purple bows into the new lace
cap she’s counting on wearing.  Only think how
disappointed they’d all be if I should say:  `Never
mind–stop that.  Marie’s just going to have a
minister.  No fuss, no feathers!’  Why, dearie,
even the roses are hanging their heads for grief,”
she went on mistily, lifting with gentle fingers
one of the full-petalled pink beauties near her.
“Besides, there’s your–guests.”

“Oh, of course, I knew I couldn’t–really,”
sighed Marie, as she turned to go up-stairs, all
the light and joy gone from her face.

Billy, once assured that Marie was out of
hearing, ran to the telephone.

Bertram answered.

“Bertram, tell Cyril I want to speak to him,
please.”

“All right, dear, but go easy.  Better strike
up your tuning fork to find his pitch to-day.
You’ll discover it’s a high one, all right.”

A moment later Cyril’s tersely nervous “Good
morning, Billy,” came across the line.

Billy drew in her breath and cast a hurriedly
apprehensive glance over her shoulder to make
sure Marie was not near.

“Cyril,” she called in a low voice, “if you care
a shred for Marie, for heaven’s sake call her up
and tell her that you dote on pink roses, and pink
ribbons, and pink breakfasts–and pink wedding
cake!”

“But I don’t.”

“Oh, yes, you do–to-day!  You would–if
you could see Marie now.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing, only she overheard part of Bertram’s
nonsensical talk with Kate a little while ago, and
she’s ready to cast the last ravelling of white satin
and conventionality behind her, and go with you
to the justice of the peace.”

“Sensible girl!”

“Yes, but she can’t, you know, with fifty
guests coming to the wedding, and twice as many
more to the reception.  Honestly, Cyril, she’s
broken-hearted.  You must do something.  She’s
–coming!”  And the receiver clicked sharply
into place.

Five minutes later Marie was called to the
telephone.  Dejectedly, wistful-eyed, she went.
Just what were the words that hummed across the
wire into the pink little ear of the bride-to-be,
Billy never knew; but a Marie that was anything
but wistful-eyed and dejected left the telephone
a little later, and was heard very soon in the room
above trilling merry snatches of a little song.
Contentedly, then, Billy went back to her roses.

It was a pretty wedding, a very pretty wedding.
Every one said that.  The pink and green of the
decorations, the soft lights (Kate had had her
way about darkening the rooms), the pretty frocks
and smiling faces of the guests all helped.  Then
there were the dainty flower girl, little Kate, the
charming maid of honor, Billy, the stalwart,
handsome best man, Bertram, to say nothing of
the delicately beautiful bride, who looked like
some fairy visitor from another world in the floating
shimmer of her gossamer silk and tulle.  There
was, too, not quite unnoticed, the bridegroom;
tall, of distinguished bearing, and with features
that were clear cut and-to-day-rather pale.

Then came the reception–the “women and
confusion “of Cyril’s fears–followed by the
going away of the bride and groom with its merry
warfare of confetti and old shoes.

At four o’clock, however, with only William
and Bertram remaining for guests, something like
quiet descended at last on the little house.

“Well, it’s over,” sighed Billy, dropping
exhaustedly into a big chair in the living-room.

“And _well_ over,” supplemented Aunt Hannah,
covering her white shawl with a warmer blue one.

“Yes, I think it was,” nodded Kate.  “It
was really a very pretty wedding.”

“With your help, Kate–eh?” teased William.

“Well, I flatter myself I did do some good,”
bridled Kate, as she turned to help little Kate
take the flower wreath from her head.

“Even if you did hurry into my room and scare
me into conniption fits telling me I’d be late,”
laughed Billy.

Kate tossed her head.

“Well, how was I to know that Aunt Hannah’s
clock only meant half-past eleven when it struck
twelve?” she retorted.

Everybody laughed.

“Oh, well, it was a pretty wedding,” declared
William, with a long sigh.

“It’ll do–for an understudy,” said Bertram
softly, for Billy’s ears alone.

Only the added color and the swift glance
showed that Billy heard, for when she spoke she
said:

“And didn’t Cyril behave beautifully?  ‘Most
every time I looked at him he was talking to some
woman.”

“Oh, no, he wasn’t–begging your pardon,
my dear,” objected Bertram.  “I watched him,
too, even more closely than you did, and it was
always the _woman_ who was talking to _Cyril!_”

Billy laughed.

“Well, anyhow,” she maintained, “he listened.
He didn’t run away.”

“As if a bridegroom could!” cried Kate.

“I’m going to,” avowed Bertram, his nose in
the air.

“Pooh!” scoffed Kate.  Then she added
eagerly:  “You must be married in church, Billy,
and in the evening.”

Bertram’s nose came suddenly out of the air.
His eyes met Kate’s squarely.

“Billy hasn’t decided yet how _she_ does want
to be married,” he said with unnecessary emphasis.

Billy laughed and interposed a quick change of
subject.

“I think people had a pretty good time, too,
for a wedding, don’t you?” she asked.  “I was
sorry Mary Jane couldn’t be here–’twould have
been such a good chance for him to meet our
friends.”

“As–_Mary Jane?_” asked Bertram, a little
stiffly.

“Really, my dear,” murmured Aunt Hannah,
“I think it _would_ be more respectful to call him
by his name.”

“By the way, what is his name?” questioned
William.

“That’s what we don’t know,” laughed Billy.

“Well, you know the `Arkwright,’ don’t you?”
put in Bertram.  Bertram, too, laughed, but it
was a little forcedly.  “I suppose if you knew his
name was `Methuselah,’ you wouldn’t call him
that–yet, would you?”

Billy clapped her hands, and threw a merry
glance at Aunt Hannah.

“There! we never thought of `Methuselah,’ ”
she gurgled gleefully.  “Maybe it _is_ `Methuselah,’
now–`Methuselah John’!  You see, he’s told
us to try to guess it,” she explained, turning to
William; “but, honestly, I don’t believe, whatever
it is, I’ll ever think of him as anything but `Mary
Jane.’ ”

“Well, as far as I can judge, he has nobody
but himself to thank for that, so he can’t do any
complaining,” smiled William, as he rose to go.
“Well, how about it, Bertram?  I suppose you’re
going to stay a while to comfort the lonely–eh,
boy?”

“Of course he is–and so are you, too, Uncle
William,” spoke up Billy, with affectionate
cordiality.  “As if I’d let you go back to a forlorn
dinner in that great house to-night!  Indeed,
no!”

William smiled, hesitated, and sat down.

“Well, of course–” he began.

“Yes, of course,” finished Billy, quickly.
“I’ll telephone Pete that you’ll stay here–both
of you.”

It was at this point that little Kate, who had
been turning interested eyes from one brother
to the other, interposed a clear, high-pitched
question.

“Uncle William, didn’t you _want_ to marry my
going-to-be-Aunt Billy?”

“Kate!” gasped her mother, “didn’t I tell
you–”  Her voice trailed into an incoherent
murmur of remonstrance.

Billy blushed.  Bertram said a low word under
his breath.  Aunt Hannah’s “Oh, my grief and
conscience!” was almost a groan.

William laughed lightly.

“Well, my little lady,” he suggested, “let
us put it the other way and say that quite probably
she didn’t want to marry me.”

“Does she want to marry Uncle Bertram?”
“Kate!” gasped Billy and Mrs. Hartwell together
this time, fearful of what might be coming
next.

“We’ll hope so,” nodded Uncle William,
speaking in a cheerfully matter-of-fact voice, intended
to discourage curiosity.

The little girl frowned and pondered.  Her
elders cast about in their minds for a speedy
change of subject; but their somewhat scattered
wits were not quick enough.  It was little Kate
who spoke next.

“Uncle William, would she have got Uncle
Cyril if Aunt Marie hadn’t nabbed him first?”

“Kate!”  The word was a chorus of dismay
this time.

Mrs. Hartwell struggled to her feet.

“Come, come, Kate, we must go up-stairs–to
bed,” she stammered.

The little girl drew back indignantly.

“To bed?  Why, mama, I haven’t had my
supper yet!”

“What?  Oh, sure enough–the lights!  I
forgot.  Well, then, come up–to change your
dress,” finished Mrs. Hartwell, as with a despairing
look and gesture she led her young daughter
from the room.

by Emily Dickinson

If you were coming in the fall,
I’d brush the summer by
With half a smile and half a spurn,
As housewives do a fly.

If I could see you in a year,
I’d wind the months in balls,
And put them each in separate drawers,
Until their time befalls.

If only centuries delayed,
I’d count them on my hand,
Subtracting till my fingers dropped
Into Van Diemen’s land.

If certain, when this life was out,
That yours and mine should be,
I’d toss it yonder like a rind,
And taste eternity.

But now, all ignorant of the length
Of time’s uncertain wing,
It goads me, like the goblin bee,
That will not state its sting.

A Good Play

by Robert Louis Stevenson

We built a ship upon the stairs
All made of the back-bedroom chairs,
And filled it full of sofa pillows
To go a-sailing on the billows.

We took a saw and several nails,
And water in the nursery pails;
And Tom said, “Let us also take
An apple and a slice of cake;”–
Which was enough for Tom and me
To go a-sailing on, till tea.

We sailed along for days and days,
And had the very best of plays;
But Tom fell out and hurt his knee,
So there was no one left but me.

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