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"Painters have painted their swarming groups and the centre-figure of all,
From the head of the centre-figure spreading a nimbus of gold-color'd light,
But I paint myriads of heads, but paint no head without its nimbus of gold-color'd light,
From my hand from the brain of every man and woman it streams, effulgently flowing forever."

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"The right to make my dreams come true,
I ask, nay, I demand of life,
Nor shall fate’s deadly contraband
Impede my steps, nor countermand..."

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"Is it grabbing you?
Is it holding you tight?
Does this feeling let you sleep at night?
Swollen pink lips spewing soft secrets
You got my attention don't fight it feel it
Slipping inside this house
I need it don't fight it feel it
Come on and tell me twice
Love wants more love"

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"I've been dying to live, playing absolutes in a time where faith's misused
Burdened by my own morality, you know I love to lose
Abandon old traditions
Break the unwillingness to change
There are no second chances, the clock ticks until it breaks"

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"Come, you spirits / That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here, / And fill me from the crown to the toe top-full / Of direst cruelty!

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"I am become a name;
For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known—cities of men
And manners, climates, councils, governments,
Myself not least, but honored of them all,—
And drunk delight of battle with my peers,
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy."

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By Candy

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By Bent Life

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By William Shakespear

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Macbeth, set primarily in Scotland, mixes witchcraft, prophecy, and murder. Three "Weïrd Sisters" appear to Macbeth and his comrade Banquo after a battle and prophesy that Macbeth will be king and that the descendants of Banquo will also reign. When Macbeth arrives at his castle, he and Lady Macbeth plot to assassinate King Duncan, soon to be their guest, so that Macbeth can become king.

After Macbeth murders Duncan, the king's two sons flee, and Macbeth is crowned. Fearing that Banquo's descendants will, according to the Weïrd Sisters' predictions, take over the kingdom, Macbeth has Banquo killed. At a royal banquet that evening, Macbeth sees Banquo's ghost appear covered in blood. Macbeth determines to consult the Weïrd Sisters again. They comfort him with ambiguous promises.

Another nobleman, Macduff, rides to England to join Duncan's older son, Malcolm. Macbeth has Macduff's wife and children murdered. Malcolm and Macduff lead an army against Macbeth, as Lady Macbeth goes mad and commits suicide.

Macbeth confronts Malcolm's army, trusting in the Weïrd Sisters' comforting promises. He learns that the promises are tricks, but continues to fight. Macduff kills Macbeth and Malcolm becomes Scotland's king.

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Macbeth - Entire Play | Folger Shakespeare Library

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In 1603, James VI of Scotland ascended the English throne, becoming James I of England. London was alive with an interest in all things Scottish, and Shakespeare turned to Scottish history for material. He found a spectacle of violence and stories of traitors...

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By Walt Whitman

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1 To think of time-of all that retrospection! To think of to-day, and the ages continued henceforward! Have you guess'd you yourself would not continue? Have you dreaded these earth-beetles? Have you fear'd the future would be nothing to you? Is to-day nothing? Is the beginningless past nothing? If the future is nothing, they are just as surely nothing. To think that the sun rose in the east! that men and women    were flexible, real, alive! that everything was alive! To think that you and I did not see, feel, think, nor bear our    part! To think that we are now here, and bear our part!2 Not a day passes-not a minute or second, without an    accouchement! Not a day passes-not a minute or second, without a corpse! The dull nights go over, and the dull days also, The soreness of lying so much in bed goes over, The physician, after long putting off, gives the silent and terrible    look for an answer, The children come hurried and weeping, and the brothers and sisters    are sent for, Medicines stand unused on the shelf-(the camphor-smell has    long pervaded the rooms,) The faithful hand of the living does not desert the hand of the dying, The twitching lips press lightly on the forehead of the dying, The breath ceases, and the pulse of the heart ceases, The corpse stretches on the bed, and the living look upon it, It is palpable as the living are palpable. The living look upon the corpse with their eye-sight, But without eye-sight lingers a different living, and looks curiously    on the corpse.3 To think the thought of Death, merged in the thought of materials! To think that the rivers will flow, and the snow fall, and fruits ripen,    and act upon others as upon us now-yet not act upon us! To think of all these wonders of city and country, and others taking    great interest in them-and we taking no interest in them! To think how eager we are in building our houses! To think others shall be just as eager, and we quite indifferent! (I see one building the house that serves him a few years, or seventy    or eighty years at most, I see one building the house that serves him longer than that.) Slow-moving and black lines creep over the whole earth-they never    cease-they are the burial lines, He that was President was buried, and he that is now President shall    surely be buried.4 A reminiscence of the vulgar fate, A frequent sample of the life and death of workmen, Each after his kind: Cold dash of waves at the ferry-wharf-posh and ice in the river,    half-frozen mud in the streets, a gray, discouraged sky overhead,    the short, last daylight of Twelfth-month, A hearse and stages-other vehicles give place-the funeral    of an old Broadway stage-driver, the cortege mostly drivers. Steady the trot to the cemetery, duly rattles the death-bell, the gate    is pass'd, the new-dug grave is halted at, the living alight, the    hearse uncloses, The coffin is pass'd out, lower'd and settled, the whip is laid on the    coffin, the earth is swiftly shovel'd in, The mound above is flatted with the spades-silence, A minute-no one moves or speaks-it is done, He is decently put away-is there anything more? He was a good fellow, free-mouth'd, quick-temper'd, not bad-looking,    able to take his own part, witty, sensitive to a slight, ready with    life or death for a friend, fond of women, gambled, ate hearty,    drank hearty, had known what it was to be flush, grew low-spirited    toward the last, sicken'd, was help'd by a contribution, died, aged    forty-one years-and that was his funeral. Thumb extended, finger uplifted, apron, cape, gloves, strap, wet-weather    clothes, whip carefully chosen, boss, spotter, starter, hostler,    somebody loafing on you, you loafing on somebody, headway, man before    and man behind, good day's work, bad day's work, pet stock, mean    stock, first out, last out, turning-in at night; To think that these are so much and so nigh to other drivers-and    he there takes no interest in them!5 The markets, the government, the working-man's wages-to think what    account they are through our nights and days! To think that other working-men will make just as great account of    them-yet we make little or no account! The vulgar and the refined-what you call sin, and what you call    goodness-to think how wide a difference! To think the difference will still continue to others, yet we lie beyond    the difference. To think how much pleasure there is! Have you pleasure from looking at the sky? have you pleasure from poems? Do you enjoy yourself in the city? or engaged in business? or planning a    nomination and election? or with your wife and family? Or with your mother and sisters? or in womanly housework? or the beautiful    maternal cares? -These also flow onward to others-you and I flow onward, But in due time, you and I shall take less interest in them. Your farm, profits, crops,-to think how engross'd you are! To think there will still be farms, profits, crops-yet for you, of    what avail?6 What will be, will be well-for what is, is well, To take interest is well, and not to take interest shall be well. The sky continues beautiful, The pleasure of men with women shall never be sated, nor the pleasure of    women with men, nor the pleasure from poems, The domestic joys, the daily housework or business, the building of    houses-these are not phantasms-they have weight, form,    location; Farms, profits, crops, markets, wages, government, are none of them    phantasms, The difference between sin and goodness is no delusion, The earth is not an echo-man and his life, and all the things of    his life, are well-consider'd. You are not thrown to the winds-you gather certainly and safely    around yourself; Yourself! Yourself! Yourself, forever and ever!7 It is not to diffuse you that you were born of your mother and    father-it is to identify you; It is not that you should be undecided, but that you should be decided; Something long preparing and formless is arrived and form'd in you, You are henceforth secure, whatever comes or goes. The threads that were spun are gather'd, the weft crosses the warp,    the pattern is systematic. The preparations have every one been justified, The orchestra have sufficiently tuned their instruments-the    baton has given the signal. The guest that was coming-he waited long, for reasons-he    is now housed, He is one of those who are beautiful and happy-he is one of    those that to look upon and be with is enough. The law of the past cannot be eluded, The law of the present and future cannot be eluded, The law of the living cannot be eluded-it is eternal, The law of promotion and transformation cannot be eluded, The law of heroes and good-doers cannot be eluded, The law of drunkards, informers, mean persons-not one iota thereof    can be eluded.8 Slow moving and black lines go ceaselessly over the earth, Northerner goes carried, and Southerner goes carried, and they on the    Atlantic side, and they on the Pacific, and they between, and all    through the Mississippi country, and all over the earth. The great masters and kosmos are well as they go-the heroes and    good-doers are well, The known leaders and inventors, and the rich owners and pious and    distinguish'd, may be well, But there is more account than that-there is strict account    of all. The interminable hordes of the ignorant and wicked are not nothing, The barbarians of Africa and Asia are not nothing, The common people of Europe are not nothing-the American    aborigines are not nothing, The infected in the immigrant hospital are not nothing-the    murderer or mean person is not nothing, The perpetual successions of shallow people are not nothing as    they go, The lowest prostitute is not nothing-the mocker of religion    is not nothing as he goes.9 Of and in all these things, I have dream'd that we are not to be changed so much, nor the law    of us changed, I have dream'd that heroes and good-doers shall be under the present    and past law, And that murderers, drunkards, liars, shall be under the present    and past law, For I have dream'd that the law they are under now is enough. If otherwise, all came but to ashes of dung, If maggots and rats ended us, then Alarum! for we are betray'd! Then indeed suspicion of death. Do you suspect death? If I were to suspect death, I should die    now, Do you think I could walk pleasantly and well-suited toward    annihilation?10 Pleasantly and well-suited I walk, Whither I walk I cannot define, but I know it is good, The whole universe indicates that it is good, The past and the present indicate that it is good. How beautiful and perfect are the animals! How perfect the earth, and the minutest thing upon it! What is called good is perfect, and what is called bad is just    as perfect, The vegetables and minerals are all perfect, and the imponderable    fluids are perfect; Slowly and surely they have pass'd on to this, and slowly and surely    they yet pass on.11 I swear I think now that everything without exception has an    eternal Soul! The trees have, rooted in the ground! the weeds of the sea have!    the animals! I swear I think there is nothing but immortality! That the exquisite scheme is for it, and the nebulous float is    for it, and the cohering is for it; And all preparation is for it! and identity is for it! and life    and materials are altogether for it!

1

Something startles me where I thought I was safest,
I withdraw from the still woods I loved,
I will not go now on the pastures to walk,
I will not strip the clothes from my body to meet my lover the sea,
I will not touch my flesh to the earth as to other flesh to renew me.

O how can it be that the ground itself does not sicken?
How can you be alive you growths of spring?
How can you furnish health you blood of herbs, roots, orchards, grain?
Are they not continually putting distemper'd corpses within you?
Is not every continent work'd over and over with sour dead?

Where have you disposed of their carcasses?
Those drunkards and gluttons of so many generations?
Where have you drawn off all the foul liquid and meat?
I do not see any of it upon you to-day, or perhaps I am deceiv'd,
I will run a furrow with my plough, I will press my spade through the sod and turn it up underneath,
I am sure I shall expose some of the foul meat.

2

Behold this compost! behold it well!
Perhaps every mite has once form'd part of a sick person-yet behold!
The grass of spring covers the prairies,
The bean bursts noiselessly through the mould in the garden,
The delicate spear of the onion pierces upward,
The apple-buds cluster together on the apple-branches,
The resurrection of the wheat appears with pale visage out of its graves,
The tinge awakes over the willow-tree and the mulberry-tree,
The he-birds carol mornings and evenings while the she-birds sit on their nests,
The young of poultry break through the hatch'd eggs,
The new-born of animals appear, the calf is dropt from the cow, the colt from the mare,
Out of its little hill faithfully rise the potato's dark green leaves,
Out of its hill rises the yellow maize-stalk, the lilacs bloom in the dooryards,
The summer growth is innocent and disdainful above all those strata of sour dead.

What chemistry!
That the winds are really not infectious,
That this is no cheat, this transparent green-wash of the sea which is so amorous after me,
That it is safe to allow it to lick my naked body all over with its tongues,
That it will not endanger me with the fevers that have deposited themselves in it,
That all is clean forever and forever,
That the cool drink from the well tastes so good,
That blackberries are so flavorous and juicy,
That the fruits of the apple-orchard and the orange-orchard, that melons, grapes, peaches, plums, will
none of them poison me,
That when I recline on the grass I do not catch any disease,
Though probably every spear of grass rises out of what was once a catching disease.

Now I am terrified at the Earth, it is that calm and patient,
It grows such sweet things out of such corruptions,
It turns harmless and stainless on its axis, with such endless successions of diseas'd corpses,
It distills such exquisite winds out of such infused fetor,
It renews with such unwitting looks its prodigal, annual, sumptuous crops,
It gives such divine materials to men, and accepts such leavings from them at last.

1.
OF the visages of things-And of piercing through
to the accepted hells beneath;
Of ugliness-To me there is just as much in it as
there is in beauty-And now the ugliness of
human beings is acceptable to me;
Of detected persons-To me, detected persons are
not, in any respect, worse than undetected per-
sons-and are not in any respect worse than I
am myself;
Of criminals-To me, any judge, or any juror, is
equally criminal-and any reputable person is
also-and the President is also.

2.
OF waters, forests, hills;
Of the earth at large, whispering through medium of
me;
Of vista-Suppose some sight in arriere, through the
formative chaos, presuming the growth, fulness,
life, now attain'd on the journey;
(But I see the road continued, and the journey ever
continued;)
Of what was once lacking on earth, and in due time
has become supplied-And of what will yet be
supplied,
Because all I see and know, I believe to have purport
in what will yet be supplied.

3.
OF persons arrived at high positions, ceremonies,
wealth, scholarships, and the like;
To me, all that those persons have arrived at, sinks
away from them, except as it results to their
Bodies and Souls,
So that often to me they appear gaunt and naked;
And often, to me, each one mocks the others, and
mocks himself or herself,
And of each one, the core of life, namely happiness,
is full of the rotten excrement of maggots,
And often, to me, those men and women pass unwit-
tingly the true realities of life, and go toward
false realities,
And often, to me, they are alive after what custom has
served them, but nothing more,
And often, to me, they are sad, hasty, unwaked son-
nambules, walking the dusk.

4.
OF ownership-As if one fit to own things could not
at pleasure enter upon all, and incorporate
them into himself or herself;
Of Equality-As if it harm'd me, giving others the
same chances and rights as myself-As if it
were not indispensable to my own rights that
others possess the same;
Of Justice-As if Justice could be anything but the
same ample law, expounded by natural judges
and saviors,
As if it might be this thing or that thing, according
to decisions.

5.
As I sit with others, at a great feast, suddenly, while
the music is playing,
To my mind, (whence it comes I know not,) spectral,
in mist, of a wreck at sea,
Of the flower of the marine science of fifty generations,
founder'd off the Northeast coast, and going
down-Of the steamship Arctic going down,
Of the veil'd tableau-Women gather'd together on
deck, pale, heroic, waiting the moment that
draws so close-O the moment!
O the huge sob-A few bubbles-the white foam
spirting up-And then the women gone,
Sinking there, while the passionless wet flows on-
And I now pondering, Are those women indeed
gone?
Are Souls drown'd and destroy'd so?
Is only matter triumphant?

6.
OF what I write from myself-As if that were not the
resumé;
Of Histories-As if such, however complete, were not
less complete than my poems;
As if the shreds, the records of nations, could possibly
be as lasting as my poems;
As if here were not the amount of all nations, and of
all the lives of heroes.

7.
OF obedience, faith, adhesiveness;
As I stand aloof and look, there is to me something
profoundly affecting in large masses of men,
following the lead of those who do not believe
in men.

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1 To think of time-of all that retrospection! To think of to-day, and the ages continued henceforward! Have you guess'd you yourself would not continue? Have you dreaded these earth-beetles? Have you fear'd the future would be nothing to you? Is to-day nothing? Is the beginningless past nothing?

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By Georgia Douglas Johnson

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By Alfred Lord Tennyson

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The splendor falls on castle walls
    And snowy summits old in story;
The long light shakes across the lakes,
    And the wild cataract leaps in glory.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O, hark, O, hear! how thin and clear,
    And thinner, clearer, farther going!
O, sweet and far from cliff and scar
    The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying,
Blow, bugles; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O love, they die in yon rich sky,
    They faint on hill or field or river;
Our echoes roll from soul to soul,
    And grow forever and forever.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.

To Sleep I give my powers away;
    My will is bondsman to the dark;
    I sit within a helmless bark,
And with my heart I muse and say:

O heart, how fares it with thee now,
    That thou should fail from thy desire,
    Who scarcely darest to inquire,
"What is it makes me beat so low?"

Something it is which thou hast lost,
    Some pleasure from thine early years.
    Break thou deep vase of chilling tears,
That grief hath shaken into frost!

Such clouds of nameless trouble cross
    All night below the darkened eyes;
    With morning wakes the will, and cries,
"Thou shalt not be the fool of loss."

O true and tried, so well and long,
Demand not thou a marriage lay;
In that it is thy marriage day
Is music more than any song.

Nor have I felt so much of bliss
Since first he told me that he loved
A daughter of our house; nor proved
Since that dark day a day like this;

Tho' I since then have number'd o'er
Some thrice three years: they went and came,
Remade the blood and changed the frame,
And yet is love not less, but more;

No longer caring to embalm
In dying songs a dead regret,
But like a statue solid-set,
And moulded in colossal calm.

Regret is dead, but love is more
Than in the summers that are flown,
For I myself with these have grown
To something greater than before;

Which makes appear the songs I made
As echoes out of weaker times,
As half but idle brawling rhymes,
The sport of random sun and shade.

But where is she, the bridal flower,
That must be made a wife ere noon?
She enters, glowing like the moon
Of Eden on its bridal bower:

On me she bends her blissful eyes
And then on thee; they meet thy look
And brighten like the star that shook
Betwixt the palms of paradise.

O when her life was yet in bud,
He too foretold the perfect rose.
For thee she grew, for thee she grows
For ever, and as fair as good.

And thou art worthy; full of power;
As gentle; liberal-minded, great,
Consistent; wearing all that weight
Of learning lightly like a flower.

But now set out: the noon is near,
And I must give away the bride;
She fears not, or with thee beside
And me behind her, will not fear.

For I that danced her on my knee,
That watch'd her on her nurse's arm,
That shielded all her life from harm
At last must part with her to thee;

Now waiting to be made a wife,
Her feet, my darling, on the dead
Their pensive tablets round her head,
And the most living words of life

Breathed in her ear. The ring is on,
The 'wilt thou' answer'd, and again
The 'wilt thou' ask'd, till out of twain
Her sweet 'I will' has made you one.

Now sign your names, which shall be read,
Mute symbols of a joyful morn,
By village eyes as yet unborn;
The names are sign'd, and overhead

Begins the clash and clang that tells
The joy to every wandering breeze;
The blind wall rocks, and on the trees
The dead leaf trembles to the bells.

O happy hour, and happier hours
Await them. Many a merry face
Salutes them?maidens of the place,
That pelt us in the porch with flowers.

O happy hour, behold the bride
With him to whom her hand I gave.
They leave the porch, they pass the grave
That has to-day its sunny side.

To-day the grave is bright for me,
For them the light of life increased,
Who stay to share the morning feast,
Who rest to-night beside the sea.

Let all my genial spirits advance
To meet and greet a whiter sun;
My drooping memory will not shun
The foaming grape of eastern France.

It circles round, and fancy plays,
And hearts are warm'd and faces bloom,
As drinking health to bride and groom
We wish them store of happy days.

Nor count me all to blame if I
Conjecture of a stiller guest,
Perchance, perchance, among the rest,
And, tho' in silence, wishing joy.

But they must go, the time draws on,
And those white-favour'd horses wait;
They rise, but linger; it is late;
Farewell, we kiss, and they are gone.

A shade falls on us like the dark
From little cloudlets on the grass,
But sweeps away as out we pass
To range the woods, to roam the park,

Discussing how their courtship grew,
And talk of others that are wed,
And how she look'd, and what he said,
And back we come at fall of dew.

Again the feast, the speech, the glee,
The shade of passing thought, the wealth
Of words and wit, the double health,
The crowning cup, the three-times-three,

And last the dance;?till I retire:
Dumb is that tower which spake so loud,
And high in heaven the streaming cloud,
And on the downs a rising fire:

And rise, O moon, from yonder down,
Till over down and over dale
All night the shining vapour sail
And pass the silent-lighted town,

The white-faced halls, the glancing rills,
And catch at every mountain head,
And o'er the friths that branch and spread
Their sleeping silver thro' the hills;

And touch with shade the bridal doors,
With tender gloom the roof, the wall;
And breaking let the splendour fall
To spangle all the happy shores

By which they rest, and ocean sounds,
And, star and system rolling past,
A soul shall draw from out the vast
And strike his being into bounds,

And, moved thro' life of lower phase,
Result in man, be born and think,
And act and love, a closer link
Betwixt us and the crowning race

Of those that, eye to eye, shall look
On knowledge, under whose command
Is Earth and Earth's, and in their hand
Is Nature like an open book;

No longer half-akin to brute,
For all we thought and loved and did,
And hoped, and suffer'd, is but seed
Of what in them is flower and fruit;

Whereof the man, that with me trod
This planet, was a noble type
Appearing ere the times were ripe,
That friend of mine who lives in God,

That God, which ever lives and loves,
One God, one law, one element,
And one far-off divine event,
To which the whole creation moves.

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The splendor falls on castle walls And snowy summits old in story; The long light shakes across the lakes, And the wild cataract leaps in glory. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. O, hark, O, hear! how thin and clear, And thinner, clearer, farther going!