“If You Forget Me,” Pablo Neruda I want you to know one thing. You know how this is: if I look at the crystal moon, at the red branch of the slow autumn at my window, if I touch near the fire the impalpable ash or the wrinkled body of the log, everything carries me to you, as if everything that exists, aromas, light, metals, were little boats that sail toward those isles of yours that wait for me. Well, now, if little by little you stop loving me I shall stop loving you little by little. If suddenly you forget me do not look for me, for I shall already have forgotten you. If you think it long and mad, the wind of banners that passes through my life, and you decide to leave me at the shore of the heart where I have roots, remember that on that day, at that hour, I shall lift my arms and my roots will set off to seek another land. But if each day, each hour, you feel that you are destined for me with implacable sweetness, if each day a flower climbs up to your lips to seek me, ah my love, ah my own, in me all that fire is repeated, in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten, my love feeds on your love, beloved, and as long as you live it will be in your arms without leaving mine. “The Second Coming,” William Butler Yeats Turning and turning in the widening gyre The falcon cannot hear the falconer; Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere The ceremony of innocence is drowned; The best lack all conviction, while the worst Are full of passionate intensity. Surely some revelation is at hand; Surely the Second Coming is at hand. The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand; A shape with lion body and the head of a man, A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun, Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds. The darkness drops again but now I know That twenty centuries of stony sleep Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle, And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born? We Are Seven William Wordsworth (1770–1850) A SIMPLE Child, That lightly draws its breath, And feels its life in every limb, What should it know of death? I met a little cottage Girl:         5 She was eight years old, she said; Her hair was thick with many a curl That clustered round her head. She had a rustic, woodland air, And she was wildly clad:         10 Her eyes were fair, and very fair; —Her beauty made me glad. ‘Sisters and brothers, little Maid, How many may you be?’ ‘How many? Seven in all,’ she said,         15 And wondering looked at me. ‘And where are they? I pray you tell.’ She answered, ‘Seven are we; And two of us at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea.         20 ‘Two of us in the church-yard lie, My sister and my brother; And, in the church-yard cottage, I Dwell near them wi.

1. “If You Forget Me,” Pablo Neruda
I want you to know
one thing.
You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.
Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.
If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.
If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms

2. and my roots will set off
to seek another land.
But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine.
“The Second Coming,” William Butler Yeats
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,

3. And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
We Are Seven
William Wordsworth (1770–1850)
A SIMPLE Child,
That lightly draws its breath,
And feels its life in every limb,
What should it know of death?
I met a little cottage Girl:
5
She was eight years old, she said;
Her hair was thick with many a curl
That clustered round her head.
She had a rustic, woodland air,
And she was wildly clad:
10

4. Her eyes were fair, and very fair;
—Her beauty made me glad.
‘Sisters and brothers, little Maid,
How many may you be?’
‘How many? Seven in all,’ she said,
15
And wondering looked at me.
‘And where are they? I pray you tell.’
She answered, ‘Seven are we;
And two of us at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea.
20
‘Two of us in the church-yard lie,
My sister and my brother;
And, in the church-yard cottage, I
Dwell near them with my mother.’

5. ‘You say that two at Conway dwell,
25
And two are gone to sea,
Yet ye are seven!—I pray you tell,
Sweet Maid, how this may be.’
Then did the little Maid reply,
‘Seven boys and girls are we;
30
Two of us in the church-yard lie,
Beneath the church-yard tree.’
‘You run above, my little Maid,
Your limbs they are alive;
If two are in the church-yard laid,
35
Then ye are only five.’
‘Their graves are green, they may be seen,’
The little Maid replied,
‘Twelve steps or more from my mother’s door,

6. And they are side by side.
40
‘My stockings there I often knit,
My kerchief there I hem;
And there upon the ground I sit,
And sing a song to them.
‘And often after sun-set, Sir,
45
When it is light and fair,
I take my little porringer,
And eat my supper there.
‘The first that died was sister Jane;
In bed she moaning lay,
50
Till God released her of her pain;
And then she went away.
‘So in the church-yard she was laid;

7. And, when the grass was dry,
Together round her grave we played,
55
My brother John and I
‘And when the ground was white with snow,
And I could run and slide,
My brother John was forced to go,
And he lies by her side.’
60
‘How many are you, then,’ said I,
‘If they two are in heaven?’
Quick was the little Maid’s reply,
‘O Master! we are seven.’
‘But they are dead; those two are dead!
65
Their spirits are in heaven!’
’Twas throwing words away; for still
The little Maid would have her will,

8. And said, ‘Nay, we are seven!’
A Letter to Her Husband, Absent upon Public Employment
Anne Bradstreet
My head, my heart, mine eyes, my life, nay, more,
My joy, my magazine of earthly store, storehouse
If two be one, as surely thou and I,
How stayest thou there, whilst I at Ipswich lie?
So many steps, head from the heart to sever,
If but a neck, soon should we be together.
I like the Earth this season, mourn in black,
My Sun is gone so far in's zodiac,
Whom whilst I 'joyed, nor storms, nor frost I felt,
His warmth such frigid colds did cause to melt.
My chilled limbs now numbed lie forlorn;
Return; return, sweet Sol, from Capricorn;
In this dead time, alas, what can I more
Than view those fruits which through thy heat I bore?
Which sweet contentment yield me for a space,
True living pictures of their father's face.
O strange effect! now thou art southward gone,
I weary grow the tedious day so long;
But when thou northward to me shalt return,
I wish my Sun may never set, but burn
Within the Cancer of my glowing breast,
The welcome house of him my dearest guest.
Where ever, ever stay, and go not thence,
Till nature's sad decree shall call thee hence;
Flesh of thy flesh, bone of thy bone,
I here, thou there, yet but both one.
I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You
Pablo Neruda

9. I do not love you except because I love you;
I go from loving to not loving you,
From waiting to not waiting for you
My heart moves from cold to fire.
I love you only because it's you the one I love;
I hate you deeply, and hating you
Bend to you, and the measure of my changing love for you
Is that I do not see you but love you blindly.
Maybe January light will consume
My heart with its cruel
Ray, stealing my key to true calm.
In this part of the story I am the one who
Dies, the only one, and I will die of love because I love you,
Because I love you, Love, in fire and blood.
O Captain! My Captain!
Walt Whitman
1
O CAPTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip is done;
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won;
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:
But O heart! heart! heart!
5
O the bleeding drops of red,

10. Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
2
O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills;
10
For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-
crowding;
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head;
It is some dream that on the deck,
15
You’ve fallen cold and dead.
3
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and
done;

11. From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won;
20
Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
Wash the white clothes on Monday and put them on the stone
heap;wash the color clothes on Tuesday and put them on the
clothesline to dry;
don't walk barehead in the hot sun;
cook pumpkin fritters in very hot sweet oil;
soak your little cloths right after you take them off;
when buying cotton to make yourself a nice blouse, be sure that
it doesn't have gum on it, because that way it won't hold up well
after a wash;
soak salt fish overnight before you cook it;
is it true that you sing benna in Sunday school?;
always eat your food in such a way that it won't turn someone
else's stomach;
on Sundays try to walk like a lady and not like the slut you are
so bent on becoming;
don't sing benna in Sunday school;
you mustn't speak to wharf-rat boys, not even to give directions;
don't eat fruits on the street - flies will follow you;
but I don't sing benna on Sundays at all and never in Sunday
school;
this is how to sew on a button;
this is how to make a buttonhole for the button you have just

12. sewed on;
this is how to hem a dress when you see the hem coming down
and to prevent yourself from looking like the slut you are so
bent on becoming;
this is how you iron your father's khaki shirt so that it doesn't
have a crease;
this is how you iron your father's khaki pants so that they don't
have a crease;
this is how you grow okra - far from the house, because okra
tree harbors red ants;
when you are growing dasheen, make sure it gets plenty of
water or else it makes your throat itch when you are eating it;
this is how you sweep a corner;
this is how you sweep a whole house;
this is how you sweep a yard;
this is how you smile to someone you don't like too much;
this is how you smile at someone you don't like at all;
this is how you smile to someone you like completely;
this is how you set a table for tea;
this is how you set a table for dinner;
this is how you set a table for dinner with an important guest;
this is how you set a table for lunch;
this is how you set a table for breakfast;
this is how to behave in the presence of men who don't know
you very well, and this way they won't recognize immediately
the slut I have warned you against becoming;
be sure to wash every day, even if it is with your own spit;
don't swat down to play marbles - you are not a boy, you know;
don't pick people's flowers - you might catch something;
don't throw stones at blackbirds, because it might not be a

13. blackbird at all;
this is how to make a bread pudding;
this is how to make doukona;
this is how to make pepper pot;
this is how to make a good medicine for a cold;
this is how to make a good medicine to throw away a child
before it even becomes a child;
this is how to catch a fish;
this is how to throw back a fish you don't like and that way
something bad won't fall on you;
this is how to bully a man;
this is how a man bullies you;
this is how to love a man, and if this doesn't work there are
other ways, and if they don't work don't feel too bad about
giving up;
this is how to spit up in the air if you feel like it, and this is
how to move quick so that it doesn't fall on you;
this is how to make ends meet;
always squeeze bread to make sure it's fresh;
but what if the baker won't let me feel the bread?;
you mean to say that after all you are really going to be the kind
of woman who the baker won't let near the bread?
- Girl by Jamaica Kincaid.