You may write me down in history With your bitter, twisted lies. You may trod me in the very dirt, but still like dust, I’ll rise.
Do not go gently into that good night but 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 they Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying light.
Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.
I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o’er vales and hills When all at once I saw a crowd A host of golden daffodils Beside the lake beneath the trees Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Bliss it was in that dawn to be alive But to be young was very heaven.
Knowing that Nature never did betray the heart that loved her; ’tis her privilege, through all the years of this our life, to lead from joy to joy.
In the middle of the journey of our life I came to myself within a dark wood where the straight way was lost.
The mind is its own place, and in itself, can make heaven of Hell, and a hell of Heaven.
My candle burns at both ends; it will not last the night; but ah, my foes, and oh, my friends – it gives a lovely light!
Poetry: the best words in the best order.
Water, water, everywhere, And all the boards did shrink; Water, water, everywhere, Nor any drop to drink.
My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!
Rise like Lions after slumber In unvanquishable number- Shake your chains to earth like dew Which in sleep had fallen on you Ye are many-they are few.
Say to them, say to the down-keepers, the sun-slappers, the self-soilers, the harmony-hushers, “Even if you are not ready for day it cannot always be night.” You will be right. For that is the hard home-run. Live not for battles won. Live not for the-end-of-the-song. Live in the along.
I am nobody! Who are you? Are you a nobody, too?
Because I could not stop for death, He kindly stopped for me; The carriage held but just ourselves and immortality.
Gather ye rose-buds while ye may, Old Time is still a flying: And this same flower that smiles to day, Tomorrow will be dying.
In the bleak midwinter Frosty wind made moan, Earth stood hard as iron, Water like a stone; Snow had fallen, Snow on snow, Snow on snow, In the bleak midwinter, Long ago.