My First Memory  (of Librarians)
by Nikki Giovanni
This is my first memory: A big room with heavy wooden tables that sat on a creaky        wood floor A line of green shades—bankers’ lights—down the center Heavy oak chairs that were too low or maybe I was simply        too short               For me to sit in and read So my first book was always big In the foyer up four steps a semi-circle desk presided To the left side the card catalogue On the right newspapers draped over what looked like        a quilt rack Magazines face out from the wall The welcoming smile of my librarian The anticipation in my heart All those books—another world—just waiting At my fingertips.

I am the great sun, but you do not see me,

I am your husband, but you turn away.

I am the captive, but you do not free me,

I am the captain but you will not obey.

 

I am the truth, but you will not believe me,

I am the city where you will not stay.

I am your wife, your child, but you will leave me,

I am that God to whom you will not pray.

 

I am your counsel, but you will not hear me,

I am your lover whom you will betray.

I am the victor, but you do not cheer me,

I am the holy dove whom you will slay.

 

I am your life, but if you will not name me,

Seal up your soul with tears, and never blame me.

 

Charles Causley

From a Norman crucifix of 1632

To Thomas Moore
by George Gordon Byron

I.

My boat is on the shore,
And my bark is on the sea;
But, before I go, Tom Moore,
Here's a double health to thee!

II.

Here's a sigh to those who love me,
And a smile to those who hate;
And, whatever sky's above me,
Here's a heart for every fate.

III.

Though the ocean roar around me,
Yet it still shall bear me on;
Though a desert should surround me,
It hath springs that may be won.

IV.

Were't the last drop in the well,
As I gasp'd upon the brink,
Ere my fainting spirit fell,
'Tis to thee that I would drink.

V.

With that water, as this wine,
The libation I would pour
Should be—peace with thine and mine,
And a health to thee, Tom Moore.

Dear March - Come in - (1320)
by Emily Dickinson

Dear March - Come in -
How glad I am -
I hoped for you before -
Put down your Hat -
You must have walked -
How out of Breath you are -
Dear March, how are you, and the Rest -
Did you leave Nature well -
Oh March, Come right upstairs with me -
I have so much to tell -

I got your Letter, and the Birds -
The Maples never knew that you were coming -
I declare - how Red their Faces grew -
But March, forgive me -
And all those Hills you left for me to Hue -
There was no Purple suitable -
You took it all with you -

Who knocks? That April -
Lock the Door -
I will not be pursued -
He stayed away a Year to call
When I am occupied -
But trifles look so trivial
As soon as you have come

That blame is just as dear as Praise
And Praise as mere as Blame -

Spring Storm
by William Carlos Williams

The sky has given over
its bitterness.
Out of the dark change
all day long
rain falls and falls
as if it would never end.
Still the snow keeps
its hold on the ground.
But water, water
from a thousand runnels!
It collects swiftly,
dappled with black
cuts a way for itself
through green ice in the gutters.
Drop after drop it falls
from the withered grass-stems
of the overhanging embankment.

Whoever You Are Holding Me Now in Hand
by Walt Whitman

Whoever you are, holding me now in hand,
Without one thing, all will be useless,
I give you fair warning, before you attempt me further,
I am not what you supposed, but far different.

Who is he that would become my follower?
Who would sign himself a candidate for my affections?

The way is suspicious—the result uncertain,
     perhaps destructive;
You would have to give up all else—I alone would
     expect to be your God, sole and exclusive,
Your novitiate would even then be long and exhausting,
The whole past theory of your life, and all conformity
     to the lives around you, would have to be abandon'd;
Therefore release me now, before troubling yourself
     any further—Let go your hand from my shoulders,
Put me down, and depart on your way.

Or else, by stealth, in some wood, for trial,
Or back of a rock, in the open air,
(For in any roof'd room of a house I emerge not—
     nor in company,
And in libraries I lie as one dumb, a gawk, or
     unborn, or dead,)
But just possibly with you on a high hill—
     first watching lest any person, for miles around,
     approach unawares,
Or possibly with you sailing at sea, or on the beach
     of the sea, or some quiet island,
Here to put your lips upon mine I permit you,
With the comrade's long-dwelling kiss, or
     the new husband's kiss,
For I am the new husband, and I am the comrade.

Or, if you will, thrusting me beneath your
     clothing,
Where I may feel the throbs of your heart, or
     rest upon your hip,
Carry me when you go forth over land or sea;
For thus, merely touching you, is enough—
     is best,
And thus, touching you, would I silently sleep
     and be carried eternally.

But these leaves conning, you con at peril,
For these leaves, and me, you will not understand,
They will elude you at first, and still more
     afterward—I will certainly elude you,
Even while you should think you had unquestionably
     caught me, behold!
Already you see I have escaped from you.

For it is not for what I have put into it that I
     have written this book,
Nor is it by reading it you will acquire it,
Nor do those know me best who admire me, and
     vauntingly praise me,
Nor will the candidates for my love, (unless at
     most a very few,) prove victorious,
Nor will my poems do good only—they will do
     just as much evil, perhaps more;
For all is useless without that which you may
     guess at many times and not hit—that which I
     hinted at;
Therefore release me, and depart on your way.

Washington's Monument, February, 1885

by Walt Whitman

Ah, not this marble, dead and cold:

Far from its base and shaft expanding—the round

zones circling, comprehending,

Thou, Washington, art all the world's, the

continents' entire—not yours alone, America,

Europe's as well, in every part, castle of lord or

laborer's cot,

Or frozen North, or sultry South—the African's—

the Arab's in his tent,

Old Asia's there with venerable smile, seated

amid her ruins;

(Greets the antique the hero new? 'tis but the same

—the heir legitimate, continued ever,

The indomitable heart and arm—proofs of

the never-broken line,

Courage, alertness, patience, faith, the

same—e'en in defeat defeated not, the same:)

Wherever sails a ship, or house is built on land,

or day or night,

Through teeming cities' streets, indoors or out,

factories or farms,

Now, or to come, or past—where patriot wills

existed or exist,

Wherever Freedom, pois'd by Toleration,

sway'd by Law,

Stands or is rising thy true monument.