terça-feira, 30 de maio de 2017

Jabberwocky - Lewis Carroll

       




Jabberwocky - Lewis Carroll

’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
      Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
      And the mome raths outgrabe.

“Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
      The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
      The frumious Bandersnatch!”

He took his vorpal sword in hand;
      Long time the manxome foe he sought—
So rested he by the Tumtum tree
      And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,
      The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
      And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through
      The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
      He went galumphing back.

“And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
      Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!”
      He chortled in his joy.

’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
      Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
      And the mome raths outgrabe.




From Lines Composed a Few Miles Above Tintern Abbey William Wordsworth
The Highwayman Alfred Noyes
I'm Nobody Emily Dickinson

The Lady of Shalott Alfred, Lord Tennyson
The Lake Isle of Innisfree William Butler Yeats
The Lamb William Blake
The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock T. S. Eliot
Loveliest of Trees, the Cherry Now A. E. Housman
The Matrix Amy Lowell
Ode to Spring Robert Burns
A Poison Tree William Blake
The Red Cross Nurses Thomas Lansing Masson
The Red Cross Spirit Speaks John Huston Finley
The Shivering Beggar Robert Graves
The Tiger William Blake
The Tiger William Blake






Dora - Thomas Edward Brown

SHE knelt upon her brother's grave,
  My little girl of six years old—
He used to be so good and brave,
  The sweetest lamb of all our fold;
He used to shout, he used to sing,         5
Of all our tribe the little king—
And so unto the turf her ear she laid,
To hark if still in that dark place he play'd.
    No sound! no sound!
    Death's silence was profound;  10
    And horror crept
    Into her aching heart, and Dora wept.
    If this is as it ought to be,
    My God, I leave it unto The







Annabel Lee Edgar Allan Poe
A Child's Nightmare Robert Graves


The Walrus and the Carpenter Lewis Carroll
The Dawn Patrol Paul Bewsher






Short Poetry Collection 002




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