BECAUSE I COULD NOT STOP MY BIKE by Karen Jo Shapiro

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BECAUSE I COULD NOT STOP MY BIKE by Karen Jo Shapiro Original poems Taken from Representative Poetry Online, the Library of the University of Toronto 9s Web site: www.library.utoronto.ca/utel/rp/poems (exceptions noted) Arranged according to Bike 9s TOC. 1. Bark, Bark William Shakespeare, Cymbeline , Act II, scene iii Hark, hark, the lark at heaven 9s gate sings, And Phoebus gins arise, His steeds to water at those springs on chalic 9d flowers that lies: And winking Mary-buds begin to ope their golden eyes With every thing that pretty is, my Lady sweet arise: Arise, arise.

2. To My Dawdling Daughter Andrew Marvell, cTo His Coy Mistress d Had we but world enough, and time This coyness, lady, would be no crime. We would sit down and think which way To walk, and pass our long love 9s day; Thou by the Indian Ganges 9 side Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide Of Humber would complain.

I would Love you ten years before the Flood; And you should, if you please, refuse Till the conversion of the Jews. My vegetable love should grow Vaster then empires, and more slow. An hundred years should go to praise Thine eyes, and on thy forehead ... more. less.

gaze; Two hundred to adore each breast, But thirty thousand to the rest; An age at least to every part, And the last age should show your heart. For, lady, you deserve this state, Nor would I love at lower rate. But at my back I always hear Time 9s winged chariot hurrying near; And yonder all before us lie Deserts of vast eternity. Thy beauty shall no more by found, Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound My echoing song; then worms shall try That long-preserv 9d virginity, And your quaint honour turn to dust, And into ashes all my lust. The grave 9s a fine and private place, But none I think do there embrace. Now therefore, while the youthful hue Sits on thy skin like morning dew, And while thy willing soul transpires At every pore with instant fires, Now let us sport us while we may; And now, like am 9rous birds of prey, Rather at once our time devour, Than languish in his slow-chapp 9d power. Let us roll all our strength, and all Our sweetness, up into one ball; And tear our pleasures with rough strife Thorough the iron gates of life. Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run. 3. Dressing Alfred, Lord Tennyson, cIn Memoriam, CVI d from The Complete Poetical Works of Tennyson , Cambridge Edition. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1898. Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, The flying cloud, the frosty light: The year is dying in the night; Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. Ring out the old, ring in the new, Ring, happy bells, across the snow: The year is going, let him go; Ring out the false, ring in the true. Ring out the grief that saps the mind, For those that here we see no more; Ring out the feud of rich and poor, Ring in redress to all mankind. Ring out a slowly dying cause. And ancient forms of party strife; Ring in the nobler modes of life, With sweeter manners, purer laws. Ring out the want, the care, the sin, The faithless coldness of the times; Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes, But ring the fuller minstrel in. Ring out false pride in place and blood, The civic slander and the spite; Ring in the love of truth and right, Ring in the common love of good. Ring out old shapes of foul disease; Ring out the narrowing lust of gold; Ring out the thousand wars of old, Ring in the thousand years of peace. Ring in the valiant man and free, The larger heart, the kindlier hand; Ring out the darkness of the land, Ring in the Christ that is to be. 4. Mismatched Socks Robert Herrick, cWhenas in Silks my Julia Goes d Whenas in silks my Julia goes, Then, then (methinks) how sweetly flows That liquefaction of her clothes. Next, when I cast mine eyes, and see That brave vibration each way free, O how that glittering taketh me! 5. Me Joyce Kilmer, cTrees d I think that I shall never see A poem as lovely as a tree. A tree whose hungry mouth is prest Against the earth 9s sweet flowing breast; A tree that looks at God all day, And lifts her leafy arms to pray; A tree that may in Summer wear A nest of robins in her hair; Upon whose bosom snow has lain; Who intimately lives with rain. Poems are made by fools like me, But only God can make a tree. 6. Where My Feet Go William Shakespeare, The Tempest , Act V, scene I from The Oxford Shakespeare , Stanley Wells and Gary Taylor, general editors. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1988. Where the bee sucks, there suck I: In a cowslip 9s bell I lie; There I couch when owls do cry. On the bat 9s back I do fly After summer merrily. Merrily, merrily shall I live now Under the blossom that hangs on the bough. Merrily, merrily shall I live now Under the blossom that hangs on the bough. 7. Because I Could Not Stop My Bike Emily Dickinson, cBecause I Could Not Stop For Death d Because I could not stop for Death, He kindly stopped for me; The carriage held but just ourselves And Immortality. We slowly drove, he knew no haste, And I had put away My labor, and my leisure too, For his civility. We passed the school where children played, Their lessons scarcely done; We passed the fields of gazing grain, We passed the setting sun. We paused before a house that seemed A swelling of the ground; The roof was scarcely visible. The cornice but a mound. Since then 8tis centuries; but each Feels shorter than the day I first surmised the horses 9 heads Were toward eternity. 8. How Do I Love Ketchup? Let Me Count the Ways Elizabeth Barrett Browning, cHow Do I Love Thee? d ( Sonnets from the Portuguese 43) 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 For the ends of Being and ideal Grace. I love thee to the level of everyday 9s Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight. I love thee freely, as men strive for Right; I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise. I love thee with the passion put to use In my old griefs, and with my childhood 9s faith. I love thee with a love I seemed to lose With my lost saints, 4I love thee with the breath, Smiles, tears, of all my life! 4and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death. 9. I Eat My Pickle Edna St. Vincent Millay, cFirst Fig d My candle burns at both ends; It will not last the night; But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends 4 It gives a lovely light! 10. The Generous Boy to His Friend Christopher Marlowe, cThe Passionate Shepherd to His Love d Come live with me and be my love, And we will all the pleasures prove, That valleys, groves, hill, and fields, Woods, or steepy mountain yields. And we will sit upon the rocks, Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks, By shallow rivers, to whose falls Melodious birds sing madrigals. And I will make thee beds of roses, And a thousand fragrant posies, A cap of flowers and a kirtle Embroider 9d all with leaves of myrtle: A gown made of the finest wool, Which from our pretty lambs we pull; Fair lined slippers for the cold, With buckles of the purest gold: A belt of straw and ivy buds, With coral clasps and amber studs; And if these pleasures may thee move, Come live with me and be my love. The shepherd swains shall dance and sing For thy delight each May morning; If these delights thy mind may move, Then live with me and be my love. 11. Her Reply Sir Walter Ralegh, cThe Nymph 9s Reply d If all the world and love were young, And truth in every shepherd 9s tongue, These pretty pleasures might me move To live with thee and be thy love. Time drives the flocks from field to fold, When rivers rage and rocks grow cold, And Philomel becometh dumb; The rest complains of cares to come. To flowers do fade, and wanton fields To wayward winter reckoning yields; A honey tongue, a heart of gall, Is fancy 9s spring, but sorrow 9s fall. Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses, Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten 4 In folly ripe, in reason rotten. Thy belt of straw and ivy buds, The coral clasps and amber studs, All these in me no means can move To come to thee and be thy love. But could youth last and love still breed, Had joys no date nor age no need, Then these delights my mind might move To live with thee and be thy love. 12. A Messy Room William Blake, cA Poison Tree d from The Complete Poetry and Prose of William Blake , David V. Erdman, editor. New York: Anchor Books, 1988. I was angry with my friend; I told my wrath, my wrath did end. I was angry with my foe. I told it not, my wrath did grow. And I watered it in fears, Night & morning with my tears: And I sunned it with smiles, And with soft deceitful wiles. And it grew both day and night Till it bore an apple bright. And my foe beheld it shine, And he knew that it was mine. And into my garden stole, When the night had veild that pole; In the morning glad I see; My foe outstretched beneath the tree. 13. Where Is Your Pail, Sand-Scooper? Sir John Suckling, cWhy So Pale and Wan? d Why so pale and wan fond lover? Prithee why so pale? Will, when looking well can 9t move her, Looking ill prevail? Prithee why so pale? Why so dull and mute young sinner? Prithee why so mute? Will, when speaking well can 9t win her, Saying nothing do 9t? Prithee why so mute? Quit, quit for shame, this will not move, This cannot take her; If of herself she will not love, Nothing can make her; The devil take her. 14. A Red, Red, Nose Robert Burns, cA Red, Red Rose d O my Luve 9s like a red, red rose, That 9s newly sprung in June; O my Luve 9s like the melodie That 9s sweetly play 9d in tune. As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, So deep in luve am I; And I will luve thee still, my Dear, Till a 9 the seas gang dry. Till a 9 the seas gang dry, my Dear, And the rocks melt wi 9 the sun; I will luve thee still my Dear, While the sands o 9 life shall run. And fare thee weel, my only Luve, And fare thee weel, a while! And I will come again, my Love, Tho 9 it ware ten thousand mile! 15. The Constant Shirt-Wearer Sir John Suckling, cThe Constant Lover d Out upon it! I have lov 9d Three whole days together; And am like to love three more, If it prove fair weather. Time shall moult away his wings, Ere he shall discover In the whole wide world again Such a constant lover. But the spite on 9t is, no praise Is due at all to me; Love with me had made no stays, Had it any been but she. Had it any been but she, And that very face, There had been at least ere this A dozen dozen in her place. 16. I Never Saw a Talking Hat Emily Dickinson, cI Never Saw a Moor d from www.bartleby.com I never saw a moor, I never saw the sea; Yet I know how the heather looks, And what a wave must be. I never spoke with God, Nor visited in heaven; Yet certain am I of the spot As if the chart were given. 17. Party in Xanadu Samuel Taylor Coleridge, cKubla Khan d from The Oxford Book of 19 th Century English Verse . Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1964. 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. So twice six miles of fertile ground With walls and towers were girdled round: And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills, Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree; And here were forests ancient as the hills, Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover! A savage place! as holy and inchanted As e 9er beneath a waning moon was haunted By woman wailing for her demon lover! And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething, As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing, A might fountain momently was forced: Amid whose swift half-intermitted Burst Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail, Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher 9s flail; And 8mid these dancing rocks at one and ever It flung up momently the sacred river. Five miles meandering with a mazy motion Through wood and dale the sacred river ran, Then reached the caverns measureless to man, And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean: And 8mid this tumult Kubla heard from far Ancestral voices prophesying war! The shadow of the dome of pleasure Floated midway on the waves; Where was heard the mingled measure From the fountain and the caves. It was a miracle of rare device, A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice! A damsel with a dulcimer In a vision once I saw: It was an Abyssinian maid, And on her dulcimer she play 9d, Singing of Mount Abora. Could I revive within me Her symphony and song, To such a deep delight 8twould win me, That with music loud and long, I would build that dome in air, That sunny dome! those caves of ice! And all who heard should see them there, And all should cry, Beware! Beware! His flashing eyes, his floating hair! Weave a circle round him thrice, And close your eyes with holy dread: For he on honey-dew hath fed, And drunk the milk of Paradise. 18. My Birthday Christina Rossetti, cA Birthday d My heart is like a singing bird Whose nest is in a water 9d shoot; My heart is like an apple-tree Whose boughs are bent with thickset fruit; My heart is like a rainbow shell That paddles in a halcyon sea; My heart is gladder than all these Because my love is come to me. Raise me a dais of silk and down; Hang it with vair and purple dyes; Carve it in doves and pomegranates, And peacocks with a hundred eyes; Work it in gold and silver grapes, In leaves and silver fleur-de-lys; Because the birthday of my life Is come, my love is come to me. 19. Oh, Mommy! My Mommy! Walt Whitman, cO Captain! My Captain! d O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done, The ship has weather 9d every rack, the prize we sought is won, The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring; But O heart! heart! heart! O the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead. O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; Rise up 4for you the flag is flung 4for you the bugle trills, For you bouquets and ribbon 9d wreaths 4for you the shores a-crowding, For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning; Here Captain! dear father! This arm beneath your head! It is some dream that on the deck, You 9ve fallen cold and dead. My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still, My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse or will, The ship is anchor 9d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done, From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won; Exult O shores, and ring O bells! But I with mournful tread, Walk the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead. 20. Macaroni and Cheese Edgar Allan Poe, cAnnabel Lee d It was many and many a year ago, In a kingdom by the sea, That a maiden there lived whom you may know By the name of Annabel Lee; 4 And this maiden she lived with no other thought Than to love and be loved by me. I was a child and she was a child, In this kingdom by the sea; But we loved with a love that was more than love 4 I and my Annabel Lee 4 With a love that the wingéd seraphs in Heaven Coveted her and me. And this was the reason that, long ago, In this kingdom by the sea, A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling My beautiful Annabel Lee; So that her high-born kinsmen came And bore her away from me, To shut her up in a sepulchre, In this kingdom by the sea. The angels, not half so happy in Heaven, Went envying her and me 4 Yes! 4that was the reason (as all men know, In this kingdom by the sea) That the wind came out of the cloud by night Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. But our love it was stronger by far than the love Of those who were older than we 4 Of many far wiser than we 4 And neither the angels in Heaven above, Nor the demons down under the sea, Can ever dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful Annabel Lee: 4 For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And the starts never rise, but I feel the bright eyes Of the beautiful Annabel Lee: 4 And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side Of my darling 4my darling 4my life and my bride, In her sepulchre there by the sea 4 In her tomb by the sounding sea. 21. Fancy Bread William Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice , Act III, scene ii from The Oxford Shakespeare (cited above) Tell me where is fancy bred? Or in the heart, or in the head? How begot, how nourishéd? Reply, reply. It is engendered in the eyes, With gazing fed; and fancy dies In the cradle where it lies. Let us all ring fancy 9s knell. I 9ll begin it: ding, dong, bell. Ding, dong, bell. 22. The Tiger William Blake, cThe Tiger d Tiger! Tiger! burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal head or eye Could frame thy fearful symmetry? In what distant deeps or skies Burnt the fire of thine eyes? On what wings dare he aspire? What the hand dare seize the fire? And what shoulder, and what art, Could twist the sinews of thy heart, And when thy heart began to beat, What dread hand? and what dread feet? What the hammer? what the chain? In what furnace was thy brain? What the anvil? what dread grasp Dare its deadly terrors clasp? When the stars threw down their spears, And water 9d heaven with their tears, Did he smile his work to see? Did he who made the Lamb make thee? Tiger! Tiger! burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye, Dare frame thy fearful symmetry? 23. Our Breath William Shakespeare, As You Like It , Act II, scene vii from The Oxford Shakespeare (cited above) Blow, blow, thou winter wind. Thou art not so unkind As man 9s ingratitude. Thy tooth is not so keen, Because thou art not seen, Although thy breath be rude. Hey-ho, sing, hey-ho, unto the green holly. Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly: Then, hey-ho, the holly; This life is most jolly. Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky, That dost not bite so nigh As benefits forgot. Though thou the waters warp, Thy sting is not so sharp As friend remembered not. Hey-ho, sing, hey-ho, unto the green holly. Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly: Then, hey-ho, the holly; This life is most jolly. 24. The Toddler Alfred, Lord Tennyson, cThe Eagle d He clasps the crag with crooked hands; Close to the sun in lonely lands, Ring 9d with the azure world, he stands. The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls; He watches from his mountain walls, And like a thunderbolt he falls. 25. Sing Me a Song, My Daddy Christina Rossetti, cWhen I Am Dead, My Dearest d When I am dead, my dearest, Sing no sad songs for me; Plant thou no roses at my head, Nor shady cypress tree: Be the green grass above me With showers and dewdrops wet; And if thou wilt, remember, And if thou wilt, forget. I shall not see the shadows, I shall not feel the rain; I shall not hear the nightingale Sing on, as if in pain: And dreaming through the twilight That doth not rise nor set, Haply I may remember, And haply may forget. 26. We Outgrow Shoes Like Other Things Emily Dickinson, cWe Outgrow Love Like Other Things d from www.bartleby.com We outgrow love like other things And put it in the rawer, Till it an antique fashion shows Like costumes grandsires wore.

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