Whenever Richard Cory went down town,
The people on the pavement looked at him:
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean favored, and imperially slim.
And he was always quietly arrayed,
And he was always human when he talked;
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
“Good-morning,” and he glittered when he walked.
And he was rich—yes, richer than a king—
And admirably schooled in every grace.
In fine, we thought that he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place.
So on we worked, and waited for the light,
And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet through his head.
Never seek to tell thy love,
Love that never told can be；
For the gentle wind doth move
Silently, invisibly．
I told my love, I told my love,
I told her all my heart,
Trembling, cold, in ghastly fears---
Ah! She did depart!
Soon after she was gone from me,
A traveler came by,
Silently, invisibly：
He took her with a sigh．
Though I am young, and cannot tell
Either what Death or Love is well,
Yet I have heard they both bear darts,
And both do aim at humane hearts.
And then again, I have been told,
Love wounds with heat, as Death with cold;
So that I fear they do but bring
Extremes to touch, and mean one thing.
As in a ruin we it call
One thing to be blown up, or fall;
Or to our end, like way may have,
By a flash of lightning, or a wave;
So Love's inflamed shaft or brand,
May kill as soon as Death's cold hand;
Except Love's fires the virtue have
To fright the frost out of the grave.
Sonnet 54
Of this worlds theatre in which we stay,
My love like the spectator ydly sits
Beholding me that all the pageants play,
Disguysing diversly my troubled wits.
Sometimes I joy when glad occasion fits,
And mask in myrth lyke to a comedy:
Soone after when my joy to sorrow flits,
I waile and make my woes a tragedy.
Yet she, beholding me with constant eye,
Delights not in my merth nor rues my smart:
But when I laugh she mocks, and when I cry
She laughs and hardens evermore her heart.
What then can move her? if nor merth nor mone,
She is no woman, but a senceless stone.
If Love lives not, O God, what feel I so?
And if Love lives, what thing and which is He?
If Love is good, from where has come my woe?
If it be bad, it's a wonder, thinks me,
since every torment and adversity
which comes from it savors of joys distinct
and still I thirst, the more of it I drink.
And if it's from my own desire I burn,
what spring gives forth my wailing and complaint?
If hurt pleases, why should my plaint return?
I know not, nor why, in health, I grow faint.
O live death! O strange hurt with Love's sweet taint,
how might you fester in such quantity
unless I give consent for it to be?
If I consent, I wrongfully devote
my heart to sorrow. Thus tossed, to and fro,
quite rudderless, I sit within a boat
in a sea which two winds must undergo;
each blasts against its contrary echo.
Alas! what strange malady have I got?
I die from heat when cold, from cold when hot.