Poems of British and American writers

Sonnet 130 ♫
ˈMy ˙mistress’ ˇ eyes are “nothing like the ‘sun;
‘Coral is “far ˌmore _\ red than her “lips’ ‘red;
If ‘snow be ‘white,│‾why _\ then ‾ her ↘breasts are ‘dun;
If ↘hairs be ˇ wires,│ˈblack “wires ˌgrow on her _\ head.
¯I have ‘seen ‘roses ‘damask’d, ˈred and ‘white,
But ↘no such ↘roses ↘see I in her _\ cheeks;
And in ˈsome ‘perfumes ˌis there ↘more de‘light
Than in the ‘breath that from my ˆ mistress ˌreeks.
I ˆ love to ˙hear her ‘speak,│yet ↘well I _\ know
That ↘music hath a “far ˌmore ˌpleasing ˌsound;
¯I _\ grant I never ‘saw a ˌgoddess ‘go;
ˈMy ˙mistress, when ‘she ‘walks _\ treads on the ‘ground;
¯And _\ yet,│ˈby _\ heaven,│ˈI ˙think my _\ love as >rare
As “any ˌshe│‘belied with ˈfalse com _\ pare.

W. Shakespeare (1564-1616)

Sonnet 18 ♫

ˈShall I comˈpare ‘thee to a ˈsummer’s >day?
ˈThou ˙art “more ˇ lovely and ˈmore ‘temperate:
ˈRough >winds do ˈshake the ˈdarling ˈbuds of _\ May,
And ˈsummer’s _\ lease hath ˈall ˙too ˈshort a >date:
ˈSome’time ˈtoo ‘hot the ‘eye ¦ of ˈheaven _\ shines,
And ˈoften is his >gold ¦ comˈplexion >dimm’d;
And ˈevery >fair ¦ from >fair ¦ ˈsometime de _\ clines,
By >chance or ˈnature’s ˈchanging >course un _\ trimm’d;
But ˌthy eˈternal _\ summer ˈshall ˙not >fade
Nor ˈlose posˈsession of that ˈfair ↘thou ‘owest;
”Nor shall ˈDeath _\ brag thou ˈwander’st in his _\ shade,
When in eˈternal ‘lines to ‘time thou _\ growest;
So ˈlong as ˈmen can >breathe or >eyes can _\ see,
So ˈlong ˈlives _\ this│and >this ˈgives _\ life to _\ thee.

W. Shakespeare (1564-1616)

An extract from “Hamlet” ♫

To >be, | or _\ not to be | – ˈthat is the _\ question; ||
ˈWhether ‘tis ˈnobler in the ˇ mind ¦ to ‘suffer |
The _\ slings and ˆ arrows ¦ of outˈrageous _\ fortune |
Or to ˈtake ˆ arms aˌgainst a "sea of ˇ troubles, |

And ˈby op ˇ posing, ˆ end them? || To ˇ die, to ˆ sleep | –

ˈNo ‘more; | and ˈby a ‘sleep ¦ to ˈsay we ‘end |
The ‘heartache and the "thousand ˈnatural _\ shocks
That ˈflesh is _\ heir to || ‘Tis a ˈconsum ˇ mation
De ˇ voutly ¦ to be ‘wish’d. || To ˇ die, | to _\ sleep;

To ′sleep, | per↘chance to ‘dream. || ‘Ay, ↘there’s the ‘rub, |
For ˈin that ˙sleep of ˇ death | ˈwhat ‘dreams may _\ come,

When ˈwe have >shuffled _\ off ¦ this ˈmortal _\ coil, |
ˈMust >give us ¦ _\ pause.

W. Shakespeare (1564-1616)

The Tiger ♫

Tiger! Tiger! burning bright

In the forests of the night,

What immortal hand or eye

Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies

Burnt the fire of thine eyes?

On what wings dare he aspire?

What the hand dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder, and what art,

Could twist the sinews of thy heart?

And when thy heart began to beat,

What dread hand? And what dread feet?

What the hammer? What the chain?

In what furnace was thy brain?

What the anvil? What dread grasp

Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,

And water’d heaven with their tears,

Did he smile his work to see?

Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

Tiger! Tiger! Burning bright

In the forests of the night,

What immortal hand or eye,

Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

W. Blake (1757-1827)

When Night is Almost Done ♫

When Night is almost done
And Sunrise grows so near
That we can touch the Spaces
It’s time to smooth the Hair
And get the Dimples ready
And wonder we could care
For that old-faded Midnight
That frightened-but an Hour.

Emily Dickenson (1830-1886)

To Autumn ♫

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness!

Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;

Conspiring with him how to load and bless

With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?

Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,

While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,

And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;

Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn

Among the river sallows, borne aloft