Poem Identification Part 1

Sumer is i-cumin in—

Lhude sing, cuccu!

Groweth sed and bloweth med

And springth the wude nu.

Sing, cuccu!

sumer is i-cumin in by Anonymous

Awe bleteth after lomb,

Lhouth after calve cu,

Bulluc sterteth, bucke verteth—

Murie sing, cuccu!

Cuccu, cuccu,

Wel singes thu, cuccu.

Ne swik thu naver nu!

sumer is i-cumin in by Anonymous

Lhude

 sing Goddamm.

Raineth drop and staineth slop,

And how the wind doth ramm!

Sing: Goddamm.

Skiddeth bus and sloppeth us,

An ague hath my ham.

Freezeth river, turneth liver,

Damn you, sing: Goddamm.

Ancient Music by Ezra Pound

Goddamm, Goddamm, 'tis why I am, Goddamm,

So 'gainst the winter's balm.

Sing goddamm, damm, sing Goddamm.

Sing goddamm, sing goddamm, DAMN.

Ancient Music by Ezra Pound

Western wind, when will thou blow,
The small rain down can rain?
Christ, if my love were in my arms
And I in my bed again!

Western Wind by Anonymous

and you know that she's half crazy

but that's why you want to be there,

and she feeds you tea and oranges

that come all the way from China,

and just when you mean to tell her

that you have no love to give her

then she gets you on her wavelength

and she lets the river answer

that you've always been her lover

Suzanne Takes You Down by Leonard Cohen

he said "All men will be sailors then

until the sea shall free them",

but he himself was broken

long before the sky would open

forsaken, almost human

he sank beneath your wisdom like a stone,

and you want to travel with him

and you want to travel blind

and you think maybe you'll trust him

for he's touched your perfect body with his mind.

Suzanne Takes You Down by Leonard Cohen

from Salvation Army counters,

and the sun pours down like honey

on our lady of the harbour,

and she shows you where to look

among the garbage and the flowers

there are heroes in the seaweed,

there are children in the morning,

they are leaning out for love

and they will lean that way forever,

Suzanne Takes You Down by Leonard Cohen

Gather ye rose-buds while ye may,

Old Time is still a-flying;

And this same flower that smiles today

Tomorrow 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.

To the Virgins, To Make Much of Time by Robert Herrick

That age is best which is the first,

When youth and blood are warmer;

But being spent, the worse, and worst

Times still succeed the former.

Then be not coy, but use your time,

And while ye may, go marry;

For having lost but once your prime,

You may forever tarry.

To the Virgins, To Make Much of Time by Robert Herrick

Exacted by thy fate, on the just day.

O, could I lose all father now! For why

Will man lament the state he should envy?

To have so soon 'scap'd world's and flesh's rage,

And if no other misery, yet age?

On my First Son by Ben Jonson

Rest in soft peace, and, ask'd, say, "Here doth lie

Ben Jonson his best piece of poetry."

For whose sake henceforth all his vows be such,

As what he loves may never like too much.

On my First Son by Ben Jonson

If ever two were one, then surely we.

If ever man were loved by wife, then thee.

If ever wife was happy in a man,

Compare with me, ye women, if you can.

I prize thy love more than whole mines of gold,

To My Dear and Loving Husband by Anna Bradstreet

Or all the riches that the East doth hold.

My love is such that rivers cannot quench,

Nor ought but love from thee give recompense.

Thy love is such I can no way repay;

The heavens reward thee manifold, I pray.

Then while we live, in love let’s so persever,

That when we live no more, we may live ever.

To My Dear and Loving Husband by Anna Bradstreet

Little Lamb who made thee 

         Dost thou know who made thee 

Gave thee life & bid thee feed. 

By the stream & o'er the mead;

Gave thee clothing of delight,

Softest clothing wooly bright;

Gave thee such a tender voice,

Making all the vales rejoice! 

         Little Lamb who made thee 

         Dost thou know who made thee 

The Lamb by William Blake

 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 & he is mild, 

He became a little child: 

I a child & thou a lamb, 

We are called by his name.

         Little Lamb God bless thee. 

         Little Lamb God bless thee.

The Lamb by William Blake

Tyger Tyger, 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?

The Tyger by William Blake

And what shoulder, & what art,

Could twist the sinews of thy heart?

And when thy heart began to beat.

What dread hand? & 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?

The Tyger by William Blake

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?

Tyger Tyger burning bright,

In the forests of the night:

What immortal hand or eye,

Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

The Tyger by William Blake

O Rose thou art sick. 

The invisible worm, 

That flies in the night 

In the howling storm: 

Has found out thy bed

Of crimson joy:

And his dark secret love

Does thy life destroy.

The Sick Rose 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 Infants cry of fear,

In every voice: in every ban,

The mind-forg'd manacles I hear 

London by William Blake

How the Chimney-sweepers cry

Every blackning Church appalls, 

And the hapless Soldiers sigh

Runs in blood down Palace walls 

But most thro' midnight streets I hear

How the youthful Harlots curse

Blasts the new-born Infants tear 

And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse

London by William Blake

Aunt Jennifer's tigers prance across a screen,
Bright topaz denizens of a world of green.
They do not fear the men beneath the tree;
They pace in sleek chivalric certainty.

Aunt Jennifer’s Tigers by Adrienne Rich

Aunt Jennifer's fingers fluttering through her wool
Find even the ivory needle hard to pull.
The massive weight of Uncle's wedding band
Sits heavily upon Aunt Jennifer's hand.

Aunt Jennifer’s Tigers by Adrienne Rich

When Aunt is dead, her terrified hands will lie
Still ringed with ordeals she was mastered by.
The tigers in the panel that she made
Will go on prancing, proud and unafraid.

Aunt Jennifer’s Tigers by Adrienne Rich

In Scarlet town, where I was born,

   There was a fair maid dwellin’,

Made every youth cry Well-a-way!

   Her name was Barbara Allen.

All in the merry month of May,

   When green buds they were swellin’,

Young Jemmy Grove on his death-bed lay,

   For love of Barbara Allen.

Barbara Allen by Anonymous

“O mother, mother, make my bed,

   O make it saft and narrow:

My love has died for me today,

   I’ll die for him tomorrow.”

“Farewell,” she said, “ye virgins all,

   And shun the fault I fell in:

Henceforth take warning by the fall

   Of cruel Barbara Allen.”

Barbara Allen by Anonymous

He sent his man in to her then,

   To the town where she was dwellin’;

“O haste and come to my master dear,

   If your name be Barbara Allen.”

So slowly, slowly rase she up,

   And slowly she came nigh him,

And when she drew the curtain by—

   “Young man, I think you’re dyin’.”

Barbara Allen by Anonymous

O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,

    So haggard and so woe-begone?

The squirrel’s granary is full,

    And the harvest’s done.

I see a lily on thy brow,

    With anguish moist and fever-dew,

And on thy cheeks a fading rose

    Fast withereth too.

La Belle Dame sans Merci by John Keats

I set her on my pacing steed,

    And nothing else saw all day long,

For sidelong would she bend, and sing

    A faery’s song.

She found me roots of relish sweet,

    And honey wild, and manna-dew,

And sure in language strange she said—

    ‘I love thee true’.

La Belle Dame sans Merci by John Keats

I saw their starved lips in the gloam,

    With horrid warning gapèd wide,

And I awoke and found me here,

    On the cold hill’s side.

And this is why I sojourn here,

    Alone and palely loitering,

Though the sedge is withered from the lake,

    And no birds sing.

La Belle Dame sans Merci by John Keats