One of My Wishes Is That Those Dark Trees

SICK by Shel Silverstein

I can/not go/ to school/ today.” 8 Said lit/tle Peg/gy Ann/ McKay. 8 “I have/ the mea/sles and/ the mumps, 8 (notice “and” becomes stressed in this line) A gash/, a rash/, and pur/ple bumps. 8 My mouth /is wet./ My throat /is dry, 8 I’m go/ing blind/ in my/ right eye. 8 My tonsils are as big as rocks. 8 I’ve counted sixteen chicken pox 8 And there’s one more—that’s seventeen 8 And don’t you think my face looks green? 8 My leg is cut, my eyes are blue. 8 It might be instamatic flue. 8

I cough and sneeze and gasp and choke, I’m sure that my left leg is broke. My hip hurts when I move my chin. My belly button’s caving in. My back in wrenched & my ankle’s sprained. My ‘pendix pains each time it rains. My nose is cold. My toes are numb I have a sliver in my thumb. My neck is still. My voice is weak. I hardly whisper when I speak My tongue is filling up my mouth. I think my hair is falling out.

My elbow’s bent, my spine ain’t straight. My temperature is one-o-eight. My brain is shrunk, I cannot hear. There is a hole inside my ear. I have a hangnail, and my heart is what? What’s that? What’s that you say? You say today is….Saturday? G’bye, I’m going out to play. Said little Peggy Ann McKay.

Richelle Putnam – 2010 Whole Schools Institute Page 1 Into My Own by Robert Frost

One of/ my wi/shes is/ that those /dark trees, 10 So old/ and firm/ they scarce/ly show/ the breeze, 10 Were not/, as 'twere,/ the mere/st mask/ of gloom, 10 But stretched /away /unto /the edge /of doom. 10

I should not be withheld but that some day Into their vastness I should steal away, Fearless of ever finding open land, Or highway where the slow wheel pours the sand.

I do not see why I should e'er turn back, Or those should not set forth upon my track To overtake me, who should miss me here And long to know if still I held them dear.

They would not find me changed from him they knew-- Only more sure of all I thought was true.

Richelle Putnam – 2010 Whole Schools Institute Page 2 SONNET #18

Shall I/ compare /thee to/ a sum/mer's day? 10 Thou art /more love/ly and/ more tem/perate: 10 Rough winds/ do shake/ the dar/ling buds /of May, 10 And sum/mer's lease/hath all /too short/ a date: 10

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:

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.

Richelle Putnam – 2010 Whole Schools Institute Page 3 Ghost house by Robert Frost

I dwell/ in a lone/ly house /I know 9 That va/nished ma/ny a sum/mer ago, 10 And left/ no trace/ but the cel/lar walls, 9 And a /cellar/ in which /the day/light falls, 10 And the pur/ple-stemmed wild /raspber/ries grow. 10

O'er ruined fences the grape-vines shield 8 The woods come back to the mowing field; 9 The orchard tree has grown one copse 8 Of new wood and old where the woodpecker chops; 11 The footpath down to the well is healed. 9

I dwell with a strangely aching heart In that vanished abode there far apart On that disused and forgotten road That has no dust-bath now for the toad. Night comes; the black bats tumble and dart;

The whippoorwill is coming to shout And hush and cluck and flutter about: I hear him begin far enough away Full many a time to say his say Before he arrives to say it out.

It is under the small, dim, summer star. I know not who these mute folk are Who share the unlit place with me-- Those stones out under the low-limbed tree Doubtless bear names that the mosses mar.

They are tireless folk, but slow and sad, Though two, close-keeping, are lass and lad,-- With none among them that ever sings, And yet, in view of how many things,

As sweet companions as might be had.

Richelle Putnam – 2010 Whole Schools Institute Page 4 America the Beautiful Words by Katharine Lee Bates, Melody by Samuel Ward

O beau/tiful/ for spa/cious skies, 8 For am/ber waves/ of grain, 6 For pur/ple moun/tain ma/jesties 8 Above/ the fruit/ed plain! 6 Amer/ica!/ Ame/rica! 8 God shed/ his grace/ on thee 6 And crown/ thy good/ with bro/therhood 8 From sea /to shin/ing sea! 6

O beautiful for pilgrim feet Whose stern impassioned stress A thoroughfare of freedom beat Across the wilderness! America! America! God mend thine every flaw, Confirm thy soul in self-control, Thy liberty in law!

O beautiful for heroes proved In liberating strife. Who more than self their country loved And mercy more than life! America! America! May God thy gold refine Till all success be nobleness And every gain divine!

O beautiful for patriot dream That sees beyond the years Thine alabaster cities gleam Undimmed by human tears! America! America! God shed his grace on thee And crown thy good with brotherhood From sea to shining sea!

Richelle Putnam – 2010 Whole Schools Institute Page 5 The Ballad Of Reading Gaol a poem by Oscar Wilde

He did /not wear/ his scar/let coat, 8 For blood /and wine /are red, 6 And blood/ and wine /were on/ his hands 8 When they found/ him with /the dead, 7 The poor /dead wo/man whom/ he loved, 8 And mur/dered in/ her bed. 6

He walked amongst the Trial Men 8 In a suit of shabby grey; 7 A cricket cap was on his head, 8 And his step seemed light and gay; 7 But I never saw a man who looked 9 So wistfully at the day. 7

I never saw a man who looked With such a wistful eye Upon that little tent of blue Which prisoners call the sky, And at every drifting cloud that went With sails of silver by.

I walked, with other souls in pain, Within another ring, And was wondering if the man had done A great or little thing, When a voice behind me whispered low, "That fellow's got to swing."

Dear Christ! the very prison walls Suddenly seemed to reel, And the sky above my head became Like a casque of scorching steel; And, though I was a soul in pain, My pain I could not feel.

I only knew what hunted thought Quickened his step, and why He looked upon the garish day With such a wistful eye; The man had killed the thing he loved And so he had to die.

Richelle Putnam – 2010 Whole Schools Institute Page 6 Yet each man kills the thing he loves By each let this be heard, Some do it with a bitter look, Some with a flattering word, The coward does it with a kiss, The brave man with a sword!

Some kill their love when they are young, And some when they are old; Some strangle with the hands of Lust, Some with the hands of Gold: The kindest use a knife, because The dead so soon grow cold.

Some love too little, some too long, Some sell, and others buy; Some do the deed with many tears, And some without a sigh: For each man kills the thing he loves, Yet each man does not die.

He does not die a death of shame On a day of dark disgrace, Nor have a noose about his neck, Nor a cloth upon his face, Nor drop feet foremost through the floor Into an empty place

He does not sit with silent men Who watch him night and day; Who watch him when he tries to weep, And when he tries to pray; Who watch him lest himself should rob The prison of its prey.

He does not wake at dawn to see Dread figures throng his room, The shivering Chaplain robed in white, The Sheriff stern with gloom, And the Governor all in shiny black, With the yellow face of Doom.

Richelle Putnam – 2010 Whole Schools Institute Page 7 He does not rise in piteous haste To put on convict-clothes, While some coarse-mouthed Doctor gloats, and notes Each new and nerve-twitched pose, Fingering a watch whose little ticks Are like horrible hammer-blows.

He does not know that sickening thirst That sands one's throat, before The hangman with his gardener's gloves Slips through the padded door, And binds one with three leathern thongs, That the throat may thirst no more.

He does not bend his head to hear The Burial Office read, Nor, while the terror of his soul Tells him he is not dead, Cross his own coffin, as he moves Into the hideous shed.

He does not stare upon the air Through a little roof of glass; He does not pray with lips of clay For his agony to pass; Nor feel upon his shuddering cheek The kiss of Caiaphas.

Six weeks our guardsman walked the yard, In a suit of shabby grey: His cricket cap was on his head, And his step seemed light and gay, But I never saw a man who looked So wistfully at the day.

I never saw a man who looked With such a wistful eye Upon that little tent of blue Which prisoners call the sky, And at every wandering cloud that trailed Its ravelled fleeces by.

Richelle Putnam – 2010 Whole Schools Institute Page 8