William Shakespeare 

      from: MACBETH, ACT IV, SCENE 1



      Thrice the brinded cat hath mew'd


      Thrice and once the hedge-pig whined


      Harpier cries 'tis time 'tis time.


      Round about the cauldron go: 

      In the poison'd entrails throw. 

      Toad that under cold stone 

      Days and nights has thirty one 

      Swelter'd venom sleeping got, 

      Boil thou first i' the charmed pot.


      Double, double toil and trouble; 

      Fire burn and caldron bubble.


      Fillet of a fenny snake 

      In the cauldron boil and bake; 

      Eye of newt and toe of frog, 

      Wool of bat and tongue of dog, 

      Adder's fork and blind-worm's sting, 

      Lizard's leg and howlet's wing, 

      For a charm of powerful trouble, 

      Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.


      Double, double toil and trouble; 

      Fire burn and caldron bubble.


      Scale of dragon, tooth of wolf 

      Witches' mummy, maw and gulf 

      Of the ravin'd salt-sea shark. 

      Root of hemlock digg's i' the dark, 

      Liver of the blaspheming Jew, 

      Gall of goat and slips of yew 

      Silver'd in the moon's eclipse, 

      Nose of Turk and Tartar's lips, 

      Finger of birth-strangled babe 

      Ditch deliver'd by a drab, 

      Make the gruel thick, and slab: 

      Add thereto a tiger's chaudron, 

      For the ingredients of our cauldron


      Double, double toil and trouble; 

      Fire burn and caldron bubble.

      Second Witch

      Cool it with a baboon's blood, 

      Then the charm is firm and good.


      William Shakespeare


      Act V, Scene 1


      Now the hungry lion roars, 

        And the wolf behowls the moon; 
      Whilst the heavy ploughman snores, 
        All with weary task foredone. 
      Now the wasted brands do glow, 
        Whilst the screech-owl, screeching loud, 
      Puts the wretch that lies in woe 
        In remembrance of a shroud. 
      Now it is the time of night, 
        That the graves, all gaping wide, 
      Every one lets forth his sprite, 
        In the church-way paths to glide: 
      And we fairies, that do run, 
        By the triple Hecate's team, 
      From the presence of the sun 
        Following darkness like a dream, 
      Now are frolic: not a mouse 

      Shall disturb this hallow'd house: 

      I am sent with broom before, 

      To sweep the dust behind the door.

      William Shakespeare


      The Haunted Palace 
      by Edgar Allen Poe

      In the greenest of our valleys 

        By good angels fair tenanted, 
      Once a fair and stately place--- 
        Radiant palace---reared its head. 
      In the monarch Thought's dominion 
        It stood there! 
      Never seraph spread a pinion 
        Over fabric half so fair!
      Banners yellow, glorious golden, 
        On its roof did float and flow 
      (This---all this--- was in the olden 
        time long ago), 
      And every gentle air that dallied, 
        In that sweet day, 
      Along the ramparts plumed and pallid, 
        A winged odor went away.
      Wanderers in the happy valley 
        Through two luminous windows, saw 
      Spirits moving musically, 
        To a lute's well-tuned law, 
      Round about a throne where, sitting, 
      In state his glory well befitting, 
        The ruler of the realm was seen.
      And all with pearl and ruby glowing 
        Was the fair palace door, 
      Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing, 
        And sparkling evermore, 
      A troop of echoes, whose sweet duty 
        Was but to sing 
      In voices of surpassing beauty, 
        The wit and wisdom of their king.
      But evil things, in robes of sorrow, 
        Assailed the monarch's high estate. 
      (Ah let us mourn!---for never morrow 
        Shall dawn upon him, desolate!) 
      And round about his home the glory 
        That blushed and bloomed, 
      Is but a dim-remembered story 
        Of the old time entombed
      And travellers, now, within that valley, 
        Through the red-litten windows see 
      Vast forms that move fantastically 
        To a discordant melody, 
      While, like a ghastly rapid river, 
        Through the pale door 
      A hideous throng rush out forever, 
        And laugh, but smile no more
      Edgar Allen Poe 


    from: Scenes from the Faust of Goethe


    in alternate Chorus.

    The limits of the sphere of dream
    The bounds of true and false, are past,
    Lead us on, thou wandering Gleam,
    Lead us onward, far and fast,
    To the wide, the desert waste

    But see, how swift advance and shift
    Trees behind trees, row by row,---
    How, clift by clift, rocks bend and lift
    Their frowning foreheads as we go.
    The giant crags, ho! ho!
    How they snort, and how they blow!

    . . . . . . . . . . .

    To-whoo! to-whoo! near, nearer now
    The sound of song, the rushing throng!
    Are the screech, the lapwing, and the jay,

    All awake as if 'twere day?
    See, with long legs and belly wide,
    A salamander in the brake!
    Every root is like a snake,
    And along the loose hillside,
    With strange contortortions through the night,
    Curls to seize or to affright;
    And, animated, strong, and many,
    They dart forth polypus-antennae,
    To blister with their poison spume
    The wanderer. Through the dazzling gloom
    The many-colored mice, that thread
    The dewy turf beneath our tread,
    In troops each other's motions cross,
    Through the heath and through the moss;
    And, in legions intertangled,
    The fire-flies flit, and warm, and throng,
    Till all the mountain depths are spangled.

    Tell me, shall we go or stay?
    Shall we onward? Come along!
    Everything around is swept
    Forward, onward, far away!
    Trees and masses intercept
    The sight, and wisps on every side
    Are puffed up and multiplied

    . . . . . . . . .


    Cling tightly to the old ribs of the crag
    Beware! for if with them thou warrest
    In their fierce flight towards the wilderness
    Their breath will sweep thee into dust, and drag
    Thy body to a grave in the abyss.
    A cloud thickens the night.
    Hark! how the tempest crashes through the
    The owls fly out in strange affright;
    The columns of the evergreen palaces
    Are split and shattered;
    The roots creak, and stretch, and groan;
    And ruinously overthrown,
    The trunks are crushed and shattered
    By the fierce blast's unconquerable stress.
    Over each other crack and crash they all
    In terrible and intertangled fall;
    And through the ruins of the shaken mountain
    The airs hiss and howl!---
    It is not the voice of the fountain,
    Nor the wolf in his midnight prowl.
    Dost thou not hear?
    Strange accents are ringing
    Aloft, afar, anear?
    The witches are singing!
    The torrent of a raging wizard song
    Streams the whole mountain along.

    . . . . . . . . . . . 

    Translated by Percy Bysshe Shelley

    Stanzas Composed During A Thunderstorm
    Lord Byron

    Chill and mirk is the nightly blast,
        Where Pindus' mountains rise,
    And angry clouds are pouring fast
        The vengeance of the skies.

    Our guides are gone, our hope is lost,
        And lightnings, as they play,
    But show where rocks our path have crost,
        Or gild the torrent's spray.

    Is yon a cot I saw, though low?
        When lightning broke the gloom---
    How welcome were its shade!---ah, no!
        'Tis but a Turkish tomb.

    Through sounds of foaming waterfalls,
        I hear a voice exclaim---
    My way-worn countryman, who calls
        On distant England's name.

    A shot is fired---by foe or friend?
        Another---'tis to tell
    The mountain-peasants to descend,
        And lead us where they dwell.

    Oh! who in such a night will dare
        To tempt the wilderness?
    And who 'mid thunder-peals can hear
        Our signal of distress?

    And who that heard our shouts would rise
        To try the dubious road?
    Nor rather deem from nightly cries
        That outlaws were abroad.

    Clouds burst, skies flash, oh, dreadful hour!
        More fiercely pours the storm!
    Yet here one thought has still the power
        To keep my bosom warm.

    While wandering through each broken path,
        O'er brake and craggy brow;
    While elements exhaust their wrath,
        Sweet Florence, where art thou?

    Not on the sea, not on the sea---
        Thy bark hath long been gone:
    Oh, may the storm that pours on me,
        Bow down my head alone!

    Full swiftly blew the swift Siroc,
        When last I pressed thy lip;
    And long ere now, with foaming shock,
        Impelled thy gallant ship.

    Now thou art safe; nay, long ere now
        Hast trod the shore of Spain;
    'Twere hard if aught so fair as thou
        Should linger on the main.

    And since I now remember thee
        In darkness and in dread,
    As in those hours of revelry
        Which Mirth and Music sped;

    Do thou, amid the fair white walls,
        If Cadiz yet be free,
    At times from out her latticed halls
        Look o'er the dark blue sea;

    Then think upon Calypso's isles,
        Endeared by days gone by;
    To others give a thousand smiles,
        To me a single sigh.

    And when the admiring circle mark
        The paleness of thy face,
    A half-formed tear, a transient spark
        Of melancholy grace,

    Again thou'lt smile, and blushing shun
        Some coxcomb's raillery;
    Nor own for once thou thought'st on one,
        Who ever thinks on thee.

    Though smile and sigh alike are vain,
        When severed hearts repine
    My spirit flies o'er Mount and Main
        And mourns in search of thine. 


    I Sing the Body Electric 
    Whitman, Walt. 1900. Leaves of Grass. 

    I SING the Body electric; 

    The armies of those I love engirth me, and I engirth them; 

    They will not let me off till I go with them, respond to them, 

    And discorrupt them, and charge them full with the charge of the 


    Was it doubted that those who corrupt their own bodies conceal 


    And if those who defile the living are as bad as they who defile the 


    And if the body does not do as much as the Soul? 

    And if the body were not the Soul, what is the Soul? 

    The love of the Body of man or woman balks account--the body itself 

    balks account; 

    That of the male is perfect, and that of the female is perfect. 10

    The expression of the face balks account; 

    But the expression of a well-made man appears not only in his face; 

    It is in his limbs and joints also, it is curiously in the joints of 

    his hips and wrists; 

    It is in his walk, the carriage of his neck, the flex of his waist 

    and knees--dress does not hide him; 

    The strong, sweet, supple quality he has, strikes through the cotton 

    and flannel; 

    To see him pass conveys as much as the best poem, perhaps more; 

    You linger to see his back, and the back of his neck and shoulder- 


    The sprawl and fulness of babes, the bosoms and heads of women, the 

    folds of their dress, their style as we pass in the street, the 

    contour of their shape downwards, 

    The swimmer naked in the swimming-bath, seen as he swims through the 

    transparent green-shine, or lies with his face up, and rolls 

    silently to and fro in the heave of the water, 

    The bending forward and backward of rowers in row-boats--the horseman 

    in his saddle, 20 

    Girls, mothers, house-keepers, in all their performances, 

    The group of laborers seated at noon-time with their open dinner- 

    kettles, and their wives waiting, 

    The female soothing a child--the farmer's daughter in the garden or 


    The young fellow hoeing corn--the sleigh-driver guiding his six 

    horses through the crowd, 

    The wrestle of wrestlers, two apprentice-boys, quite grown, lusty, 

    good-natured, native-born, out on the vacant lot at sundown, 

    after work, 

    The coats and caps thrown down, the embrace of love and resistance, 

    The upper-hold and the under-hold, the hair rumpled over and blinding 

    the eyes; 

    The march of firemen in their own costumes, the play of masculine 

    muscle through clean-setting trowsers and waist-straps, 

    The slow return from the fire, the pause when the bell strikes 

    suddenly again, and the listening on the alert, 

    The natural, perfect, varied attitudes--the bent head, the curv'd 

    neck, and the counting; 30 

    Such-like I love--I loosen myself, pass freely, am at the mother's 

    breast with the little child, 

    Swim with the swimmers, wrestle with wrestlers, march in line with 

    the firemen, and pause, listen, and count. 

    I know a man, a common farmer--the father of five sons; 

    And in them were the fathers of sons--and in them were the fathers of 


    This man was of wonderful vigor, calmness, beauty of person; 

    The shape of his head, the pale yellow and white of his hair and 

    beard, and the immeasurable meaning of his black eyes--the 

    richness and breadth of his manners, 

    These I used to go and visit him to see--he was wise also; 

    He was six feet tall, he was over eighty years old--his sons were 

    massive, clean, bearded, tan-faced, handsome; 

    They and his daughters loved him--all who saw him loved him; 

    They did not love him by allowance--they loved him with personal 

    love; 40 

    He drank water only--the blood show'd like scarlet through the clear- 

    brown skin of his face; 

    He was a frequent gunner and fisher--he sail'd his boat himself--he 

    had a fine one presented to him by a ship-joiner--he had 

    fowling-pieces, presented to him by men that loved him; 

    When he went with his five sons and many grand-sons to hunt or fish, 

    you would pick him out as the most beautiful and vigorous of 

    the gang.

    You would wish long and long to be with him--you would wish to sit by 

    him in the boat, that you and he might touch each other.

    I have perceiv'd that to be with those I like is enough, 

    To stop in company with the rest at evening is enough, 

    To be surrounded by beautiful, curious, breathing, laughing flesh is 


    To pass among them, or touch any one, or rest my arm ever so lightly 

    round his or her neck for a moment--what is this, then? 

    I do not ask any more delight--I swim in it, as in a sea.

    There is something in staying close to men and women, and looking on 

    them, and in the contact and odor of them, that pleases the 

    soul well; 50 

    All things please the soul--but these please the soul well.

    This is the female form; 

    A divine nimbus exhales from it from head to foot; 

    It attracts with fierce undeniable attraction! 

    I am drawn by its breath as if I were no more than a helpless vapor-- 

    all falls aside but myself and it; 

    Books, art, religion, time, the visible and solid earth, the 

    atmosphere and the clouds, and what was expected of heaven or 

    fear'd of hell, are now consumed; 

    Mad filaments, ungovernable shoots play out of it--the response 

    likewise ungovernable; 

    Hair, bosom, hips, bend of legs, negligent falling hands, all 

    diffused--mine too diffused; 

    Ebb stung by the flow, and flow stung by the ebb--love-flesh swelling 

    and deliciously aching; 

    Limitless limpid jets of love hot and enormous, quivering jelly of 

    love, white-blow and delirious juice; 60 

    Bridegroom night of love, working surely and softly into the 

    prostrate dawn; 

    Undulating into the willing and yielding day, 

    Lost in the cleave of the clasping and sweet-flesh'd day.

    This is the nucleus--after the child is born of woman, the man is 

    born of woman; 

    This is the bath of birth--this is the merge of small and large, and 

    the outlet again.

    Be not ashamed, women--your privilege encloses the rest, and is the 

    exit of the rest; 

    You are the gates of the body, and you are the gates of the soul.

    The female contains all qualities, and tempers them--she is in her 

    place, and moves with perfect balance; 

    She is all things duly veil'd--she is both passive and active; 

    She is to conceive daughters as well as sons, and sons as well as 

    daughters. 70

    As I see my soul reflected in nature; 

    As I see through a mist, one with inexpressible completeness and 


    See the bent head, and arms folded over the breast--the female I see.

    The male is not less the soul, nor more--he too is in his place; 

    He too is all qualities--he is action and power; 

    The flush of the known universe is in him; 

    Scorn becomes him well, and appetite and defiance become him well; 

    The wildest largest passions, bliss that is utmost, sorrow that is 

    utmost, become him well--pride is for him; 

    The full-spread pride of man is calming and excellent to the soul; 

    Knowledge becomes him--he likes it always--he brings everything to 

    the test of himself; 80 

    Whatever the survey, whatever the sea and the sail, he strikes 

    soundings at last only here; 

    (Where else does he strike soundings, except here?) 

    The man's body is sacred, and the woman's body is sacred; 

    No matter who it is, it is sacred; 

    Is it a slave? Is it one of the dull-faced immigrants just landed on 

    the wharf? 

    Each belongs here or anywhere, just as much as the well-off--just as 

    much as you; 

    Each has his or her place in the procession.

    (All is a procession; 

    The universe is a procession, with measured and beautiful motion.)

    Do you know so much yourself, that you call the slave or the dull- 

    face ignorant? 90 

    Do you suppose you have a right to a good sight, and he or she has no 

    right to a sight? 

    Do you think matter has cohered together from its diffuse float--and 

    the soil is on the surface, and water runs, and vegetation 


    For you only, and not for him and her?

    A man's Body at auction; 

    I help the auctioneer--the sloven does not half know his business.

    Gentlemen, look on this wonder! 

    Whatever the bids of the bidders, they cannot be high enough for it; 

    For it the globe lay preparing quintillions of years, without one 

    animal or plant; 

    For it the revolving cycles truly and steadily roll'd. 

    In this head the all-baffling brain; 100 

    In it and below it, the makings of heroes.

    Examine these limbs, red, black, or white--they are so cunning in 

    tendon and nerve; 

    They shall be stript, that you may see them.

    Exquisite senses, life-lit eyes, pluck, volition, 

    Flakes of breast-muscle, pliant back-bone and neck, flesh not flabby, 

    good-sized arms and legs, 

    And wonders within there yet.

    Within there runs blood, 

    The same old blood! 

    The same red-running blood! 

    There swells and jets a heart--there all passions, desires, 

    reachings, aspirations; 110 

    Do you think they are not there because they are not express'd in 

    parlors and lecture-rooms?

    This is not only one man--this is the father of those who shall be 

    fathers in their turns; 

    In him the start of populous states and rich republics; 

    Of him countless immortal lives, with countless embodiments and 


    How do you know who shall come from the offspring of his offspring 

    through the centuries? 

    Who might you find you have come from yourself, if you could trace 

    back through the centuries?

    A woman's Body at auction! 

    She too is not only herself--she is the teeming mother of mothers; 

    She is the bearer of them that shall grow and be mates to the 


    Have you ever loved the Body of a woman? 120 

    Have you ever loved the Body of a man? 

    Your father--where is your father? 

    Your mother--is she living? have you been much with her? and has she 

    been much with you? 

    --Do you not see that these are exactly the same to all, in all 

    nations and times, all over the earth?

    If any thing is sacred, the human body is sacred, 

    And the glory and sweet of a man, is the token of manhood untainted; 

    And in man or woman, a clean, strong, firm-fibred body, is beautiful 

    as the most beautiful face.

    Have you seen the fool that corrupted his own live body? or the fool 

    that corrupted her own live body? 

    For they do not conceal themselves, and cannot conceal themselves.

    O my Body! I dare not desert the likes of you in other men and women, 

    nor the likes of the parts of you; 130 

    I believe the likes of you are to stand or fall with the likes of the 

    Soul, (and that they are the Soul;) 

    I believe the likes of you shall stand or fall with my poems--and 

    that they are poems, 

    Man's, woman's, child's, youth's, wife's, husband's, mother's, 

    father's, young man's, young woman's poems; 

    Head, neck, hair, ears, drop and tympan of the ears, 

    Eyes, eye-fringes, iris of the eye, eye-brows, and the waking or 

    sleeping of the lids, 

    Mouth, tongue, lips, teeth, roof of the mouth, jaws, and the jaw- 


    Nose, nostrils of the nose, and the partition, 

    Cheeks, temples, forehead, chin, throat, back of the neck, neck-slue, 

    Strong shoulders, manly beard, scapula, hind-shoulders, and the ample 

    side-round of the chest.

    Upper-arm, arm-pit, elbow-socket, lower-arm, arm-sinews, 

    arm-bones, 140 

    Wrist and wrist-joints, hand, palm, knuckles, thumb, fore-finger, 

    finger-balls, finger-joints, finger-nails, 

    Broad breast-front, curling hair of the breast, breast-bone, breast- 


    Ribs, belly, back-bone, joints of the back-bone, 

    Hips, hip-sockets, hip-strength, inward and outward round, man-balls, 


    Strong set of thighs, well carrying the trunk above, 

    Leg-fibres, knee, knee-pan, upper-leg, under leg, 

    Ankles, instep, foot-ball, toes, toe-joints, the heel; 

    All attitudes, all the shapeliness, all the belongings of my or your 

    body, or of any one's body, male or female, 

    The lung-sponges, the stomach-sac, the bowels sweet and clean, 

    The brain in its folds inside the skull-frame, 150 

    Sympathies, heart-valves, palate-valves, sexuality, maternity, 

    Womanhood, and all that is a woman--and the man that comes from 


    The womb, the teats, nipples, breast-milk, tears, laughter, weeping, 

    love-looks, love-perturbations and risings, 

    The voice, articulation, language, whispering, shouting aloud, 

    Food, drink, pulse, digestion, sweat, sleep, walking, swimming, 

    Poise on the hips, leaping, reclining, embracing, arm-curving and 


    The continual changes of the flex of the mouth, and around the eyes, 

    The skin, the sun-burnt shade, freckles, hair, 

    The curious sympathy one feels, when feeling with the hand the naked 

    meat of the body, 

    The circling rivers, the breath, and breathing it in and out, 160 

    The beauty of the waist, and thence of the hips, and thence downward 

    toward the knees, 

    The thin red jellies within you, or within me--the bones, and the 

    marrow in the bones, 

    The exquisite realization of health; 

    O I say, these are not the parts and poems of the Body only, but of 

    the Soul, 

    O I say now these are the Soul!

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