A Little Bit of Drama

All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

Tyger Tyger, burning bright, 
In the forests of the night; 
What immortal hand 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, & what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat.
What dread hand? & 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'd heaven with their tears:
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

Tyger Tyger burning bright,
In the forests of the night:
What immortal hand or eye,
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

.....

Episode: https://robertwalker.blog/pod15

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—

Only this and nothing more.”

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow

From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—

Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain

Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;

So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating

“’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—

This it is and nothing more.”

.....

Episode: https://robertwalker.blog/pod14

“A Poison Tree” by William Blake 

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 and 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 veiled the pole; 

In the morning glad I see; 

My foe outstretched beneath the tree. 

..... 

“Suicide in the Trenches” by Siegfried Sassoon 

I knew a simple soldier boy 

Who grinned at life in empty joy, 

Slept soundly through the lonesome dark, 

And whistled early with the lark. 

In winter trenches, cowed and glum, 

With crumps and lice and lack of rum, 

He put a bullet through his brain. 

No one spoke of him again. 

You smug-faced crowds with kindling eye 

Who cheer when soldier lads march by, 

Sneak home and pray you'll never know 

The hell where youth and laughter go. 

..... 

Episode: https://robertwalker.blog/pod13 

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 every day’s  

Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.  

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.  

…..  

Eposide: https://robertwalker.blog/pod12  

She dwelt among the untrodden ways  

Besides the spring of Dove,  

A Maid whom there were none to praise  

And very few to love:  

A violet by a mossy stone  

Half hidden from the eye!  

—Fair as a star, when only one  

Is shining in the sky.  

She lived unknown, and few could know  

When Lucy ceased to be;  

But she is in her grave, and, oh,  

The difference to me!  

…..  

Episode: https://robertwalker.blog/pod11  

DAWN  

Dead shadows dance in the night  

yearning for the dawn.  

Cold and forgotten walking scars,  

drained by decay,  

wasted by time,  

stretch out,  

hungered and blurred,  

to a spark ignited,  

climbing,  

rising from the ground.  

From the last depths,  

rays of hope entwine in the sky,  

kissing the hills;  

breathing new life  

and wonders layered in light.  

Naked with joy, a new day, a new world is born.  

THE OUTER VIEW  

Beneath a mountain of tedium,  

In a dull ugly system,  

In an empty ocean of shadows,  

Is a silhouette of pure fire heat  

Drifting in the dark.  

All I wanted was the wind;  

The wind murmured with anticipation,  

The grass turned to icy grey,  

A fine mist fell,  

And with the mist came my sorrow  

Cooling my body  

With her thousand kisses,  

Leaving me there.  

I am surrounded by ice crystals  

floating down through silence  

into soft glowing snow.  

The only sound is the pulse of my breathing.  

As the sun sleeps,  

how many hearts are dreaming,  

when the world stands still.

…..  

Episode: https://robertwalker.blog/pod10  

Beneath a mountain of tedium,  

In a dull ugly system,  

In an empty ocean of shadows,  

Is a silhouette of pure fire heat  

Drifting in the dark.  

All I wanted was the wind;  

The wind murmured with anticipation,  

The grass turned to icy grey,  

A fine mist fell,  

And with the mist came my sorrow  

Cooling my body  

With her thousand kisses,  

Leaving me there.  

I am surrounded by ice crystals  

floating down through silence  

into soft glowing snow.  

The only sound is the pulse of my breathing.  

As the sun sleeps,  

how many hearts are dreaming,  

when the world stands still.  

.....  

Episode: https://robertwalker.blog/pod9  

To be, or not to be, that is the question:  

Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer  

The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,  

Or to take arms against a sea of troubles  

And by opposing end them. To die—to sleep,  

No more; and by a sleep to say we end  

The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks  

That flesh is heir to: 'tis a consummation  

Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;  

To sleep, perchance to dream—ay, there's the rub:  

For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,  

When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,  

Must give us pause—there's the respect  

That makes calamity of so long life.  

For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,  

Th'oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,  

The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,  

The insolence of office, and the spurns  

That patient merit of th'unworthy takes,  

When he himself might his quietus make  

With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,  

To grunt and sweat under a weary life,  

But that the dread of something after death,  

The undiscovere'd country, from whose bourn  

No traveller returns, puzzles the will,  

And makes us rather bear those ills we have  

Than fly to others that we know not of?  

Thus conscience doth make cowards of us all,  

And thus the native hue of resolution  

Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,  

And enterprises of great pith and moment  

With this regard their currents turn awry  

And lose the name of action.  

.....  

Episode: https://robertwalker.blog/pod8  

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves  

Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;  

All mimsy were the borogoves,

And the mome raths outgrabe.  

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son  

The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!  

Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun  

The frumious Bandersnatch!"  

He took his vorpal sword in hand;  

Long time the manxome foe he sought—  

So rested he by the Tumtum tree,  

And stood awhile in thought.  

And, as in uffish thought he stood,  

The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,  

Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,  

And burbled as it came!  

One, two! One, two! And through and through  

The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!  

He left it dead, and with its head  

He went galumphing back.  

"And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?  

Come to my arms, my beamish boy!  

O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!"  

He chortled in his joy.  

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves  

Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;  

All mimsy were the borogoves,  

And the mome raths outgrabe.  

.....  

Episode: https://robertwalker.blog/pod7