The Banshee Wails(tm): West Room- Poetry

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The Banshee's Favorite Poetry

Excerpts from Evangeline

"Sometimes she lingered in towns, till, urged by the fever within her,
Urged by a restless longing, the hunger and thirst of the spirit,
She would commence again her endless search and endeavor;
Sometimes in churchyards strayed, and gazed on the crosses and tombstones,
Sat by some nameless grave, and thought that perhaps in its bosom,
He was already at rest, and she longed to slumber beside him."
--Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

"All was ended now, the hope, and the fear, and the sorrow,
All the aching of the heart, the restless, unsatsified longing,
All the dull, deep pain, and constant anguish of patience!
And, as she pressed once more the lifeless head to her bosom,
Meekly she bowed her own, and murmurred,
"Father, I thank thee!"
--Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

"In the heart of the city, they live,
Unknown and unnoticed.
Daily the tides of life go ebbing
and flowing beside them
Thousands of throbbing hearts, where
Their souls are at rest and forever,
Thousands of aching brains, where
Theirs no longer are busy,
Thousands of toiling hands, where
Theirs have ceased from their labors,
Thousands of weary feet, where
Theirs have completed their journey."
--Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The Panther

His vision, from the constantly passing bars,
has grown so weary that it cannot hold
anything else. It seems to him there are
a thousand bars; and behind the bars, no world.

As he paces in cramped circles, over and over,
the movement of his powerful soft strides
is like a ritual dance around a center
in which a mighty will stands paralyzed.

Only at times, the curtain of pupils
lifts, quietly---. An image enters in,
rushes down through the tensed, arrested muscles,
plunges into the heart and is gone.
--Ranier Maria Rilke

Sonnet 71

No longer mourn for me when I am dead
Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell
Give warning to the world that I am fled
From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell:
Nay, if you read this line, remember not
The hand that writ it; for I love you so,
That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot,
If thinking on me then should make you woe.
Oh, if, (I say,) you look upon this verse
When I (perhaps) compounded am from clay,
Do not so much as my poor name rehearse,
But let your love even with my life decay;
Lest the wise world should look into your moan,
And mock you with me after I am gone.
--William Shakespeare

Do not go gentle into the good night
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.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning that they
Do not go gentle into that good night

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
--Dylan Thomas

An Irish Airman Forsees his Death

I know that I shall meet my fat
Somewhere among the clouds above;
Those that I fight I do not hate,
Those that I guard I do not love;
My country is Kiltartan Cross,
My countrymen Kiltartan’s poor,
No likely end could bring them loss
Or leave them happier than before.
Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,
Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,
A lonely impulse of delight
Drove to this tumult in the clouds;
I balanced all, brought all to mind,
The years to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behind
In balance with this life, this death.
--W. B. Yeats

From John Donne's Holy Sonnets

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure, then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.
Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy or charms can make us sleep well
And better than thy stroke, why swell'st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally
And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.