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Litform / Poetry / Page 1 of 5
SONNET 73William Shakespeare That time of year thou mayst in me beholdWhen yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hangUpon those boughs which shake against the cold,Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.In me thou seest the twilight of such dayAs after sunset fadeth in the west,Which by and by black night doth take away,Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,As the death-bed whereon it must expireConsumed with that which it was nourish'd by. This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong, To love that well which thou must leave ere long. TO THE VIRGINS, TO MAKE MUCH OF TIME.by Robert HerrickGATHER ye rosebuds while ye may,Old time is still a-flying :And this same flower that smiles to-dayTo-morrow will be dying. The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,The higher he's a-getting, The sooner will his race be run,And nearer he's to setting. That age is best which is the first,When youth and blood are warmer ;But being spent, the worse, and worstTimes still succeed the former. Then be not coy, but use your time,And while ye may go marry :For having lost but once your primeYou may for ever tarry.
 
Litform / Poetry / Page 2 of 5
 
Litform / Poetry / Page 3 of 5
MY PAPA'S WALTZ Theodore Roethke The whiskey on your breathCould make a small boy dizzy;But I hung on like death:Such waltzing was not easy.We romped until the pansSlid from the kitchen shelf;My mother's countenanceCould not unfrown itself. The hand that held my wristWas battered on one knuckle;At every step you missedMy right ear scraped a buckle. You beat time on my headWith a palm caked hard by dirt, Then waltzed me off to bedStill clinging to your shirt.STRANGE FRUITLewis Allen (performed by Billie Holiday)Southern trees bear strange fruit,Blood on the leaves and blood at the root,Black bodies swinging in the southern breeze,Strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees.Pastoral scene of the gallant south, The bulging eyes and the twisted mouth,Scent of magnolias, sweet and fresh, Then the sudden smell of burning flesh.Here is fruit for the crows to pluck,For the rain to gather, for the wind to suck,For the sun to rot, for the trees to drop,Here is a strange and bitter crop.
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