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But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep.

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;

Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village though;

Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy? Caught in a landslide, no escape from reality.

Here we go round the prickly pear Prickly pear prickly pear Here we go round the prickly pear At five o'clock in the morning.

Tyger Tyger, burning bright, In the forests of the night; What immortal hand or eye, Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

This is the way the world ends Not with a bang but a whimper.

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight

No man is an island, Entire of itself, Every man is a piece of the continent, A part of the main.

Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred.

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan A stately pleasure-dome decree: Where Alph, the sacred river, ran Through caverns measureless to man Down to a sunless sea.

Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;

Turning and turning in the widening gyre The falcon cannot hear the falconer;

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.

I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;

Because I could not stop for Death— He kindly stopped for me— The Carriage held but just Ourselves— And Immortality.

What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man, You cannot say, or guess, for you know only A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I— I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.

Water, water, every where, And all the boards did shrink; Water, water, every where, Nor any drop to drink.

Out of the night that covers me, Black as the pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be For my unconquerable soul.

He clasps the crag with crooked hands; Close to the sun in lonely lands, Ring'd with the azure world, he stands.

Half a league, half a league, Half a league onward, All in the valley of Death Rode the six hundred.

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate:

And when I feel, fair creature of an hour, That I shall never look upon thee more, Never have relish in the faery power Of unreflecting love—then on the shore

In the room the women come and go Talking of Michelangelo.

Hope is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul, And sings the tune without the words, And never stops at all,

In Flanders fields the poppies blow Between the crosses, row on row,

If you can keep your head when all about you Are losing theirs and blaming it on you, If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, But make allowance for their doubting too;

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea, The plowman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever: Its loveliness increases; it will never Pass into nothingness;

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky, And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by;

So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

Let us go then, you and I, When the evening is spread out against the sky Like a patient etherized upon a table;

Had we but world enough and time, This coyness, Lady, were no crime.

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done, The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,

O Rose, thou art sick! The invisible worm, That flies in the night, In the howling storm:

Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.

My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings; Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!

So much depends upon a red wheel barrow