here is a compilation of literary pieces that i took up in high school until college. unfortunately, it was only during 3rd year college when i truly, truly appreciated reading poetry, short stories, etc. Thanks to our Humanities teacher then. =)
SHORT STORIESSnow by Garrison Keillor
Excerpt from Brave New World Aldous Huxley
How by Lorrie Moore
Hills Like White Elephants by Ernest Hemingway
A Clean Well-lighted Place by Ernest Hemingway
Scoring by Joy Dayrit
A Very Old Man with Enormous Wings by Gabriel Garcia Marquez
Snow, Glass, Apples by Neil Gaiman
Fire Trees and Orange Sundays by Caroline Hau
The Use of Force by William Carlos Williams
Flight by Kerima Polotan-Tuvera
Fall of the House of Usher by Edgar Allan Poe
The Cask of Amontillado by Edgar Allan Poe
The Necklace by Guy de Maupassant
The Piece of String by Guy de Maupassant
Moonlight by Guy de Maupassant
Wee Willie Winkie by Rudyard Kipling
The Blue Cross by G. K. Chesterton
The Rocking-horse Winner by D. H. Lawrence
The Wall by Jean Paul Sartre
The Third Ingredient by O. Henry
Appointment with Loveby Sulamith Ish-Kishor
The Lottery by Shirley Jackson
The God Stealers by F. Sionil Jose
Impeng Negro by Rogelio Sicat
Dead Stars by Paz Marquez Benitez
God Sees the Truth But Waits by Leo Tolstoy
The Prodigal SonThe Story of Ruth from the Old Testament
POEMSSnow White and the Seven Dwarves by Anne Sexton (
Other poems by Anne Sexton - Briar Rose, Rapunzel, Cinderella)
Two-Headed Calf
LAURA GILPIN Tomorrow when the farm boys find this
freak of nature they will wrap his body
in newspaper and carry him to the museum.
But tonight he is alive and in the north
field with his mother. It is a perfect
summer evening: the moon rising over
the orchard, the wind in the grass. And
as he stares into the sky, there are
twice as many stars as usual.
Dover Beach
MATTHEW ARNOLDThe sea is calm tonight,
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Upon the straits; on the French coast the light
Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand,
Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
Come to the window, sweet is the night air!
Only, from the long line of spray
Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land,
Listen! you hear the grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness in.
Sophocles long ago
Heard it on the Agean, and it brought
Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow
Of human misery; we
Find also in the sound a thought,
Hearing it by this distant northern sea.
The Sea of Faith
Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled.
But now I only hear
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of the night wind, down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world.
Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.
1867
Pantoum: The Comfort Woman
BINO A. REALUYOMonsoon country, so expectedly, wind uproots memory.
Rain is the voice of a storyteller, one without pause
like my nightly return to the hundred days of bulb light
and curtains, laughter and weight of soldiers outside, lined up.
Rain, tell me the story once again; mine, don’t pause--
sounds of belts unbuckle, dawn; blood gorges to a rush downward.
Let me weigh their laughter one by one, past rooms of curtains,
where my body tilts, reaching out, upward, tied to a post
with a belt, the dawn of memory, the rush of sound:
"Tanaka--," I scream. My husband awakens, "Who is he--Tanaka?"
My body tilts upward, reaching you, untying a dream.
Tanaka, my dear, he and the darkness are one, always waiting
and awake, a whisper at night, a husband to his wife, a soldier
to me, a Japanese soldier without a choice, breathing through limbs.
Tanaka in the darkness was as dear as the wait to escape.
Tanaka in the morning was as cruel as the smell of his peers,
these Japanese whose choices were my limbs, mouth and breath.
I never told you, my dear, that every night, I leave my hands beside you
to carry the rest back to the cruelty of their smell, of their mornings:
nine months of war in this hut, my body as food, my life as nothing.
If I tell you how it was, will you hold my hands, surrender to memory?
Soon I will disappear, running naked in a hut, pursued by ropes, shadows.
Nine months: a war for the rest of my life, for the rest of nothing,
telling the rain, the wind, voices of storytellers, ones without pause,
how I disappeared to be naked as rope, naked as its shadow,
in this hut of fears, hands limp and tied, slipping into thoughts;
I told the rain to carry my voice, the wind to hold it without pause.
Now, in my monsoon country, so expectedly, wind uproots memory.
Immigrants
PAT MORAwrap their babies in the American flag,
feed them mashed hot dogs and apple pie,
name them Bill and Daisy,
buy them blonde dolls that blink blue
eyes or a football and tiny cleats
before the baby can even walk,
speak to them in thick English,
hallo, babee, hallo,
whisper in Spanish or Polish
when the babies sleep, whisper
in a dark parent bed, that dark
parent fear, “Will they like
our boy, our girl, our fine American
boy, our fine American girl?”
Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening
ROBERT FROSTWhose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
Fire and Ice
ROBERT FROSTSome say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
>From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favour fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.
All Because You Kissed Me GoodnightI ran up the door, closed the stairs,
Said my pajamas and put on my prayers.
I shut off the bed and hopped into the light
All because you kissed me goodnight.
Next morning I woke up and scrambled my shoes,
Read the eggs and toasted the news.
I couldn't tell my left from my right,
All because you kissed me goodnight.
That evening at last
I felt normal again,
So I picked up my mom
and called the phone,
Spoke to the dog
and tossed Dad a bone.
Even at midnight...
the sun was still bright,
All because
....you kissed me goodnight.
Song
CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTIWhen 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.
SONNET 18Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou growest:
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this and this gives life to thee.
SONNET 29When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries
And look upon myself and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featured like him, like him with friends possess'd,
Desiring this man's art and that man's scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;
For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.
XLIII (How Do I Love Thee)
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNINGHow 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's
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's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints,--I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life!--and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.
The Passionate Shepherd to His Love
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWECome live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That valleys, groves, hills, 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
Embroidered 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 th 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 shepherds' 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.
The nymph's reply to the shepherd
SIR WALTER RALEIGHIf all the world and love were young,
And truth in every shepherd's 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.
The flowers do fade, and wanton fields
To wayward winter reckoning yields;
A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall.
The gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten,—
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.
Thy belt of straw and ivy buds,
Thy 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.
I Arise From Dreams of Thee
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEYI arise from dreams of thee
In the first sweet sleep of night
When the winds are breathing low
And the stars are shining bright.
I arise from dreams of thee
And a spirit in my feet
Has led me -- who knows how? --
To thy chamber window, sweet.
The wandering airs, they faint
On the dark, the silent stream,
The champak odors fall
Like sweet thoughts in a dream.
The nightingales complaint,
It dies upon her breast,
As I must die on thine,
Oh, beloved as thou art.
Oh, lift me from the grass!
I die, I faint, I fail!
Let thy love in kisses rain
On my lips and eye-lids pale;
My cheek is cold and white, alas,
My heart beats loud and fast.
Oh press it close to thine again
Where it will break at last.
Song to Celia
BEN JONSONDrink to me, only with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine ;
Or leave a kiss but in the cup,
And I'll not look for wine.
The thirst, that from the soul doth rise, 5
Doth ask a drink divine :
But might I of Jove's nectar sup,
I would not change for thine.
I sent thee late a rosy wreath,
Not so much honoring thee, 10
As giving it a hope, that there
It could not wither'd be.
But thou thereon didst only breathe,
And sent'st it back to me :
Since when it grows, and smells, I swear, 15
Not of itself, but thee.
On his blindness
JOHN MILTON (1608-1674)When I consider how my light is spent,
Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide,
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my maker, and present
My true account, lest he returning chide,
Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?
I fondly ask; but Patience to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts, who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best, his state
Is kingly. Thousands at his bidding speed
And post o'er land and ocean without rest:
They also serve who only stand and wait.
To the Virgins to Make Much of Time
ROBERT HERRICKGATHER ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old time is still a-flying :
And this same flower that smiles to-day
To-morrow will be dying.
The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,
The higher he's a-getting,
The sooner will his race be run,
And nearer he's to setting.
That age is best which is the first,
When youth and blood are warmer ;
But being spent, the worse, and worst
Times still succeed the former.
Then be not coy, but use your time,
And while ye may go marry :
For having lost but once your prime
You may for ever tarry.
A Red, Red Rose
ROBERT BURNSO my luve's like a red, red rose
That's newly sprung in June;
O mu luve's like the melodie
That's sweetly play'd in tune.
As fair art thou, my bonie lass,
So deep in luve am I;
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a' the seas gang dry.
Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi' the sun;
O I will luve thee still, my dear
While the sands o' life shall run.
And fare-thee-weel, my only Luve!
And fare-thee-weel awhile!
And I will come again, my luve,
Tho' 'twere ten thousand miles.
O my luve's like a red, red rose,
That's newly sprung in June;
O my luve's like the melodie
That's sweetly play'd in tune.
She Walks in Beauty
LORD GEORGE GORDON BYRONShe walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!
Invictus
WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY (1849–1903)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.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.
Shylock’s Speech
from the Merchant of Venice by SHAKESPEARETo bait fish withal: if it will feed nothing else,
it will feed my revenge. He hath disgraced me, and
hindered me half a million; laughed at my losses,
mocked at my gains, scorned my nation, thwarted my
bargains, cooled my friends, heated mine
enemies; and what's his reason? I am a Jew. Hath
not a Jew eyes? hath not a Jew hands, organs,
dimensions, senses, affections, passions? fed with
the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject
to the same diseases, healed by the same means,
warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer, as
a Christian is? If you prick us, do we not bleed?
if you tickle us, do we not laugh? if you poison
us, do we not die? and if you wrong us, shall we not
revenge? If we are like you in the rest, we will
resemble you in that. If a Jew wrong a Christian,
what is his humility? Revenge. If a Christian
wrong a Jew, what should his sufferance be by
Christian example? Why, revenge. The villany you
teach me, I will execute, and it shall go hard but I
will better the instruction.
Portia’s Speech
from The Merchant of Venice by SHAKESPEAREThe quality of mercy is not strained.
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven,
Upon the place beneath.
It is twice blessed.
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes.
It is mightiest in the mightiest,
It becomes the throned monarch better than his crown.
His sceptre shows the force of temporal power,
An attribute to awe and majesty.
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings.
But mercy is above this sceptred sway,
It is enthroned in the hearts of kings,
It is an attribute to God himself.
And earthly power doth then show likest God's,
Where mercy seasons justice.
The Balcony Scene
from Romeo and Juliet BY SHAKESPEARE[Capulet's orchard.]
ROMEO [Coming forward.]:
But soft! What light through yonder window breaks?
It is the East, and Juliet is the sun!
Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon
Who is already sick and pale with grief
That thou her maid art far more fair than she.
Be not her maid, since she is envious.
Her vestal livery is but sick and green,
And none but fools do wear it. Cast it off.
It is my lady! O, it is my love!
O, that she knew she were!
She speaks, yet she says nothing.
What of that? Her eye discourses; I will answer it.
I am too bold; 'tis not to me she speaks.
Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven
Having some business, do entreat her eyes
To twinkle in their spheres till they return.
What if her eyes were there, they in her head?
The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars
As daylight doth a lamp; her eyes in heaven
Would through the airy region stream so bright
That birds would sing and think it were not night.
See how she leans her cheek upon her hand!
O, that I were a glove upon that hand,
That I might touch that cheek!
JULIET :
Ay me!
ROMEO:
She speaks.
O, speak again, bright angel, for thou art
As glorious to this night, being o'er my head,
As is a winged messenger of heaven
Unto the white-upturned wond'ring eyes
Of mortals that fall back to gaze on him
When he bestrides the lazy puffing clouds
And sails upon the bosom of the air.
JULIET:
O Romeo, Romeo! Wherefore art thou Romeo?
Deny thy father and refuse thy name;
Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love,
And I'll no longer be a Capulet.
ROMEO [Aside.]:
Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this?
JULIET:
'Tis but thy name that is my enemy.
Thou art thyself, though not a Montague.
What's Montague? It is nor hand, nor foot,
Nor arm, nor face. O, be some other name
Belonging to a man.
What's in a name? That which we call a rose
By any other word would smell as sweet.
So Romeo would, were he not Romeo called,
Retain that dear perfection which he owes
Without that title. Romeo, doff thy name;
And for thy name, which is no part of thee,
Take all myself.
