| Lines of poetry | Poet |
|---|
| I, too, sing America. / I am the darker brother. | |
| I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked | |
| I give the undertakers permission to haul my body / to the graveyard and to lay away all, the head, the / feet, the hands, all | |
| The hills my brothers & I created / Never balanced, & it took years / To discover how the world worked. | |
| The old South Boston Aquarium stands / in a Sahara of snow now. Its broken windows are boarded. / The bronze weathervane cod has lost half its scales. / The airy tanks are dry. | |
| From my mother's sleep I fell into the State, / And I hunched in its belly till my wet fur froze. / Six miles from earth, loosed from its dream of life, / I woke to black flak and | |
| You do not do, you do not do / Any more, black shoe / In which I have lived like a foot / For thirty years, poor and white, / Barely daring to breathe or Achoo. | |
| anyone lived in a pretty how town / (with up so floating many bells down) / spring summer autumn winter / he sang his didn't he danced his did | |
| I placed a jar in Tennessee, / And round it was, upon a hill. | |
| It was an icy day. / We buried the cat, / then took her box / and set fire to it / in the back yard. / Those fleas that escaped / earth and fire / died by the cold. | |
| I, too, dislike it: there are things that are important beyond / all this fiddle. / Reading it, however, with a perfect contempt for it, one / discovers in / it after all, a place | |
| Thou ill-formed offspring of my feeble brain, / Who after birth didst by my side remain, / Till snatched from thence by friends, less wise than true, / Who thee abroad, exposed to | |
| I tie my Hat—I crease my Shawl— / Life's little duties do—precisely— / As the very least / Were infinite—to me— | |
| Mary sat musing on the lamp-flame at the table / Waiting for Warren. When she heard his step, / She ran on tip-toe down the darkened passage / To meet him in the doorway with the n | |
| A noiseless patient spider, / I mark'd where on a little promontory it stood isolated, / Mark'd how to explore the vacant vast surrounding, / It launch'd forth filament, filament, | |
| 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. | |
| I saw the hawk ride updraft in the sunset over Wyoming. / It rose from coniferous darkness, past gray jags / Of mercilessness, past whiteness, into the gloaming / Of dream-spectral | |
| 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; | |
| April is the cruellest month, breeding / Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing / Memory and desire, stirring / Dull roots with spring rain. | |
| In your extended absence, you permit me / use of earth, anticipating / some return on investment. I must report / failure in my assignment, principally / regarding the tomato plant | |
| | Lines of poetry | Poet |
|---|
| 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! | |
| All houses wherein men have lived and died / Are haunted houses.Through the open doors / The harmless phantoms on their errands glide, / With feet that make no sound upon the floor | |
| You may write me down in history / With your bitter, twisted lies, / You may trod me in the very dirt / But still, like dust, I'll rise. | |
| What the bad news was / became apparent too late / for us to do anything good about it. | |
| This is a day when truths will out, perhaps; / leak from the dangling telephone earphones / sapping the festooned switchboards' strength; | |
| They eat beans mostly, this old yellow pair. / Dinner is a casual affair. / Plain chipware on a plain and creaking wood, / Tin flatware. | |
| Great God, I ask for no meaner pelf / Than that I may not disappoint myself, / That in my action I may soar as high / As I can now discern with this clear eye. | |
| Black reapers with the sound of steel on stones / Are sharpening scythes. I see them place the hones / In their hip-pockets as a thing that's done, / And start their silent swingin | |
| What makes a nation's pillars high / And it's foundations strong? / What makes it mighty to defy / The foes that round it throng? | |
| One flower / on the cliffside / Nodding at the canyon | |
| O say, can you see, by the dawn's early light, / What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming? | |
| 'Twas mercy brought me from my Pagan land, / Taught my benighted soul to understand / That there's a God, that there's a Saviour too: | |
| About the Shark, phlegmatical one, / Pale sot of the Maldive sea, / The sleek little pilot-fish, azure and slim, / How alert in attendance be. | |
| Only name the day, and we'll fly away / In the face of old traditions, / To a sheltered spot, by the world forgot, / Where we'll park our inhibitions. | |
| The fruit rolled by all day. / They prayed the cogs would creep; / They thought about Saturday pay, / And Sunday sleep. | |
| 'I cannot go to school today,' / Said little Peggy Ann McKay. / 'I have the measles and the mumps, / A gash, a rash and purple bumps. | |
| I have gone out, a possessed witch, / haunting the black air, braver at night; / dreaming evil, I have done my hitch / over the plain houses, light by light: | |
| The sun that brief December day / Rose cheerless over hills of gray, / And, darkly circled, gave at noon / A sadder light than waning moon. | |
| My dear Telemachus, / The Trojan War is over now; / I don't recall who won it. | |
| Burning, he walks in the stream of flickering letters, clarinets, / machines throbbing quicker than the heart, lopped-off heads, silk / canvases, and he stops under the sky // and | |
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