(1) Fire and Ice O God!

Can I not grasp

BY ROBERT FROST Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
Some say the world will end in fire, One from the pitiless wave?
Some say in ice. Is all that we see or seem
From what I’ve tasted of desire But a dream within a dream?
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate (4) Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night
To say that for destruction ice BY DYLAN THOMAS
Is also great
And would suffice. Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
(2) Mother to Son
BY LANGSTON HUGHES Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Well, son, I’ll tell you: Do not go gentle into that good night.
Life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.
It’s had tacks in it, Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
And splinters, Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
And boards torn up, Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And places with no carpet on the floor—
Bare. Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
But all the time And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
I’se been a-climbin’ on, Do not go gentle into that good night.
And reachin’ landin’s,
And turnin’ corners, Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
And sometimes goin’ in the dark Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Where there ain’t been no light. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
So boy, don’t you turn back.
Don’t you set down on the steps And you, my father, there on the sad height,
’Cause you finds it’s kinder hard. Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Don’t you fall now— Do not go gentle into that good night.
For I’se still goin’, honey, Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
I’se still climbin’,
And life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.
(5) The New Colossus
BY EMMA LAZARUS
(3) A Dream Within a Dream
BY EDGAR ALLAN POE Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Take this kiss upon the brow! Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
And, in parting from you now, A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Thus much let me avow — Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
You are not wrong, who deem Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
That my days have been a dream; Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
Yet if hope has flown away The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
In a night, or in a day, “Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she
In a vision, or in none, With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,
Is it therefore the less gone? Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
All that we see or seem The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Is but a dream within a dream. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”
I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand —
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep — while I weep!
(6) If You Forget Me I think that I shall never see
BY PABLO NERUDA A poem lovely as a tree.

I want you to know A tree whose hungry mouth is prest

one thing. Against the earth’s sweet flowing breast;

You know how this is: A tree that looks at God all day,
if I look And lifts her leafy arms to pray;
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window, A tree that may in Summer wear
if I touch A nest of robins in her hair;
near the fire
the impalpable ash Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
or the wrinkled body of the log, Who intimately lives with rain.
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists, Poems are made by fools like me,
aromas, light, metals, But only God can make a tree.
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me. (8) Courage
BY ANNE SEXTON
Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me It is in the small things we see it.
I shall stop loving you little by little. The child's first step,
as awesome as an earthquake.
If suddenly The first time you rode a bike,
you forget me wallowing up the sidewalk.
do not look for me, The first spanking when your heart
for I shall already have forgotten you. went on a journey all alone.
When they called you crybaby
If you think it long and mad, or poor or fatty or crazy
the wind of banners and made you into an alien,
that passes through my life, you drank their acid
and you decide and concealed it.
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots, Later,
remember if you faced the death of bombs and bullets
that on that day, you did not do it with a banner,
at that hour, you did it with only a hat to
I shall lift my arms comver your heart.
and my roots will set off You did not fondle the weakness inside you
to seek another land. though it was there.
Your courage was a small coal
But that you kept swallowing.
if each day, If your buddy saved you
each hour, and died himself in so doing,
you feel that you are destined for me then his courage was not courage,
with implacable sweetness, it was love; love as simple as shaving soap.
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me, Later,
ah my love, ah my own, if you have endured a great despair,
in me all that fire is repeated, then you did it alone,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten, getting a transfusion from the fire,
my love feeds on your love, beloved, picking the scabs off your heart,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms then wringing it out like a sock.
without leaving mine. Next, my kinsman, you powdered your sorrow,
you gave it a back rub
and then you covered it with a blanket
(7) Trees and after it had slept a while
BY JOYCE KILMER it woke to the wings of the roses
and was transformed.
Later, I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
when you face old age and its natural conclusion some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
your courage will still be shown in the little ways, I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.
each spring will be a sword you'll sharpen,
those you love will live in a fever of love, —Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
and you'll bargain with the calendar I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident
and at the last moment the art of losing’s not too hard to master
when death opens the back door though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.
you'll put on your carpet slippers
and stride out.
(12) Dream Deferred
BY LANGSTON HUGHES
(9) We Real Cool
BY GWENDOLYN BROOKS What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
THE POOL PLAYERS. Like a raisin in the sun?
SEVEN AT THE GOLDEN SHOVEL. Or fester like a sore--
We real cool. We And then run?
Left school. We Does it stink like rotten meat?
Lurk late. We Or crust and sugar over--
Strike straight. We like a syrupy sweet?
Sing sin. We Maybe it just sags
Thin gin. We like a heavy load.
Jazz June. We Or does it explode?
Die soon.

(13) If—
(10) The Red Wheelbarrow BY RUDYARD KIPLING
BY WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS
If you can keep your head when all about you
so much depends Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
upon If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
a red wheel If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
barrow Or, being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or, being hated, don’t give way to hating,
glazed with rain And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise;
water If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;
If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;
beside the white If you can meet with triumph and disaster
chickens And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
(11) One Art Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
BY ELIZABETH BISHOP Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build ’em up with wornout tools;
The art of losing isn’t hard to master; If you can make one heap of all your winnings
so many things seem filled with the intent And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
to be lost that their loss is no disaster. And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
Lose something every day. Accept the fluster If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent. To serve your turn long after they are gone,
The art of losing isn’t hard to master. And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: “Hold on”;
Then practice losing farther, losing faster: If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
places, and names, and where it was you meant Or walk with kings—nor lose the common touch;
to travel. None of these will bring disaster. If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much;
I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or If you can fill the unforgiving minute
next-to-last, of three loved houses went. With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run—
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.
 Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son! Baby, jive me gust
one more bliss

Whisper your
neat nothings in my near
(14) Jabberwocky
BY LEWIS CARROLL Can we hock each other
one tore mime?
’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe: All light wrong?
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe. Baby give me just
one more briss
“Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch! My won & homely
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!” You wake me meek
in the needs
He took his vorpal sword in hand;
Long time the manxome foe he sought— Mill you larry me?
So rested he by the Tumtum tree
And stood awhile in thought. Baby, hive me just
one more guess
And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame, With this sing
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood, I’ll thee shed
And burbled as it came!
(16) I, Too
One, two! One, two! And through and through BY LANGSTON HUGHES
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head I, too, sing America.
He went galumphing back.
I am the darker brother.
“And hast thou slain the Jabberwock? They send me to eat in the kitchen
Come to my arms, my beamish boy! When company comes,
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!” But I laugh,
He chortled in his joy. And eat well,
And grow strong.
’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe: Tomorrow,
All mimsy were the borogoves, I’ll be at the table
And the mome raths outgrabe. When company comes.
Nobody’ll dare
Say to me,
(15) Errata “Eat in the kitchen,”
BY KEVIN YOUNG Then.

Baby, give me just Besides,

one more hiss They’ll see how beautiful I am
And be ashamed—
We must lake it fast
morever I, too, am America.

I want to cold you

in my harms

& never get lo

I live you so much

it perts!
Analyze the following:

1. Title
2. The piece and the author’s background,
era/time that the piece was written, etc.
3. Mood, emotion, atmosphere
4. Dominant figures of speech/symbolisms
5. Theme
6. Message
7. Literary theory used

Format:

A4
Arial, 10-11
Single-spaced