Poems and Short Stories

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Sonnet 1Jose Garcia Villa

First, a poem must be magical Then musical as a sea gull. It must be a brightness moving And hold secret a birds flowering. It must be slender as a bell, And it must hold fire as well. It must have the wisdom of bows And it must kneel like a rose. It must be able to hear The luminance of dove and deer. It must be able to hide What it seeks like a bride. And over all, I would like to hover God, smiling from the poems cover.

Hark! Hark! The LarkWilliam Shakespeare

Hark! hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings, And Phoebus 'gins arise, His steeds to water at those springs On chalic'd flowers that lies; And winking Mary-buds begin To open their golden eyes; With everything that pretty is, My lady sweet, arise: Arise, arise!

William Shakespeare

Love

TELL me where is Fancy bred, Or in the heart or in the head? How begot, how nourished? Reply, reply. It is engender'd in the eyes, With gazing fed; and Fancy dies In the cradle where it lies. Let us all ring Fancy's knell: I'll begin it,--Ding, dong, bell. All. Ding, dong, bell.

Blue RosesRudyard Kipling Roses red and roses white Plucked I for my love's delight. She would none of all my posies-Bade me gather her blue roses.

Half the world I wandered through, Seeking where such flowers grew. Half the world unto my quest Answered me with laugh and jest. Home I came at wintertide, But my silly love had died Seeking with her latest breath Roses from the arms of Death. It may be beyond the grave She shall find what she would have. Mine was but an idle quest-Roses white and red are best!

The AdvertisementRudyard Kipling Whether to wend through straight streets strictly, Trimly by towns perfectly paved; Or after office, as fitteth thy fancy, Faring with friends far among fields; There is none other equal in action, Sith she is silent, nimble, unnoisome,

Lordly of leather, gaudily gilded, Burgeoning brightly in a brass bonnet, Certain to steer well between wains.

The BeginnerRudyard Kipling Lo! What is this that I make -- sudden, supreme, unrehearsed -This that my clutch in the crowd pressed at a venture has raised? Forward and onward I sprang when I thought (as I ought) I reversed, And a cab like martagon opens and I sit in the wreckage dazed. And someone is taking my name, and the driver is rending the air With cries for my blood and my gold, and a snickering news-boy brings

My cap, wheel-pashed from the kerb. I must run her home for repair, Where she leers with her bonnet awry--flat on the nether springs!

MILTONAlfred Lord Tennyson O mighty-mouthed inventor of harmonies O skilled to sing of Time or Eternity, God-gifted organ-voice of England, Milton, a name to resound for ages; Whose Titan angels, Gabriel, Abdiel, Starred from Jehovah's gorgeous armories, Tower, as the deep-domed empyrean Rings to the roar of an angel onset! Me rather all that bowery loneliness, The brooks of Eden mazily murmuring, And bloom profuse and cedar arches

Charm as a wanderer out in ocean, Where some refulgent sunset of India Streams o'er a rich ambrosial ocean isle, And crimson-hued the stately palm-woods Whisper in odorous heights of even.

SUMMER NIGHTAlfred Lord Tennyson Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white; Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk; Nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry font: The firefly wakens: waken thou with me. Now droops the milk-white peacock like a ghost, And like a ghost she glimmers on to me. Now lies the Earth all Dance to the stars, And all thy heart lies open unto me. Now slides the silent meteor on, and leaves A shining furrow, as thy thoughts in me.

Now folds the lily all her sweetness up, And slips into the bosom of the lake: So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip Into my bosom and be lost in me.

IN THE GARDEN AT SWAINSTONAlfred Tennyson Nightingales warbled without, Within was weeping for thee: Shadows of three dead men Walked in the walks with me: Shadows of three dead men, and thou was one of the three. Nightingales sang in the woods: The Master was far away: Nightingales warbled and sang Of a passion that lasts but a day; Still in the house in his coffin the Prince of courtesy lay. Two dead men have I known In courtesy like to thee: Two dead men have I loved With a love that ever will be: Three dead men have I loved, and thou art last of the three.

When I Was No Bigger Than A HugeJose Garcia Villa When, I, was, no, bigger, than, a, huge, Star, in, my, self, I, began, to, write, My, Theology, Of, rose, and, Tiger: till, I, burned, with, their Pure, and, Rage. Then, was, I, WrathFull, And, most, Gentle: most, Dark, and, yet, most, Lit: in, me, an, Eye, there, grew: springing, Vision, Its, Gold, and, Its, wars. Then, I, knew, the, Lord, was, not, my, Creator! Not, He, the, Unbegottenbut, I, saw, The, Creator,

Was, Iand, I, began, to, Die, and, I, began, to, Grow.

Anchored AngelJose Garcia Villa Anchored Angel And,lay,he,down,the,golden,father, (Genesis,fist,all,gentle,now). between,the,Wall,of,China,and, The,tiger,tree(his,centuries,his, Aerials,of,light) Anchored, entire, angel! He,in,his,estate,miracle,and,living,dew, His,fuses,gold,his,cobalts,love, And,in,his,eyepits, O,under,the,liontelling,sun The,zeta,truththe,swift,red,Christ.

The Passionate PilgrimWilliam Shakespeare

When my love swears that she is made of truth, I do believe her, though I know she lies, That she might think me some untutor'd youth, Unskilful in the world's false forgeries, Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young, Although I know my years be past the best, I smiling credit her false-speaking tongue, Outfacing faults in love with love's ill rest. But wherefore says my love that she is young? And wherefore say not I that I am old? O, love's best habit is a soothing tongue, And age, in love, loves not to have years told. Therefore, I'll lie with love, and love with me, Since that our faults in love thus smother'd be.

Project in EnglishMs. Riza Jane M. Ramos Artlaine N. TauthoTeacher

CharlotteStudent

January 4, 2010 Date of Submission

The Phantom Rickshaw

Rudyard Kipling

One of the few advantages that India has over England is a great Knowability. After five years' service a man is directly or indirectly acquainted with the two or three hundred Civilians in his Province, all the Messes of ten or twelve Regiments and Batteries, and some fifteen hundred other people of the non-official caste, in ten years his knowledge should be doubled, and at the end of twenty he knows, or knows something about, every Englishman in the Empire, and may travel anywhere and everywhere without paying hotel-bills. Globe-trotters who expect entertainment as a right, have, even within my memory, blunted this open-heartedness, but none the less to-day, if you belong to the Inner Circle and are neither a Bear nor a Black Sheep, all houses are open to you, and our small world is very, very kind and helpful. Rickett of Kamartha stayed with Polder of Kumaon some fifteen years ago. He meant to stay two nights, but was knocked down by rheumatic fever, and for six weeks disorganized Polder's establishment, stopped Polder's work, and nearly died in Polder's bedroom. Polder behaves as though he had been placed under eternal obligation by Rickett, and yearly sends the little Ricketts a box of presents and toys. It is the same everywhere. The men who do not take the trouble to conceal from you their opinion that you are an incompetent ass, and the women who blacken your character and misunderstand your wife's amusements, will work themselves to the

bone in your behalf if you fall sick or into serious trouble, Heatherlegh, the Doctor, kept, in addition to his regular practice, a hospital on his private account--an arrangement of loose boxes for Incurables, his friend called it--but it was really a sort of fitting-up shed for craft that had been damaged by stress of weather. The weather in India is often sultry, and since the tale of bricks is always a fixed quantity, and the only liberty allowed is permission to work overtime and get no thanks, men occasionally break down and become as mixed as the metaphors in this sentence. Heatherlegh is the dearest doctor that ever was, and his invariable prescription to all his patients is, "lie low, go slow, and keep cool." He says that more men are killed by overwork than the importance of this world justifies. He maintains that overwork slew Pansay, who died under his hands about three years ago. He has, of course, the right to speak authoritatively, and he laughs at my theory that there was a crack in Pansay's head and a little bit of the Dark World came through and pressed him to death. "Pansay went off the handle," says Heatherlegh, "after the stimulus of long leave at Home. He may or he may not have behaved like a blackguard to Mrs. KeithWessington. My notion is that the work of the Katabundi Settlement ran him off his legs, and that he took to brooding and making much of an ordinary P. & O. flirtation. He certainly was engaged to Miss Mannering, and she certainly broke off the engagement. Then he took a feverish chill and all that nonsense about ghosts developed. Overwork started his illness, kept it alight, and killed him, poor devil.

Write him off to the System--one man to take the work of two and a half men." I do not believe this. I used to sit up with Pansay sometimes when Heatherlegh was called out to patients, and I happened to be within claim. The man would make me most unhappy by describing in a low, even voice, the procession that was always passing at the bottom of his bed. He had a sick man's command of language. When he recovered I suggested that he should write out the whole affair from beginning to end, knowing that ink might assist him to ease his mind. When little boys have learn