Episode 6: "A HYMN to the MORNING" by Phillis Wheatley

Read and more GoodPoetry at www.GoodPoetry.org, and listen on Audible, iTunes, Stitcher, Spotify, Anchor.Fm, iHeart, and GooglePlay Music and connect with us @itsGoodPoetry on Facebook, and Twitter. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Photograph Info: George Platt Lynes - This image is available from the United States Library of Congress's Prints and Photographs division under the digital ID cph.3c01955. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The Poem: Song Lovely, dark, and lonely one,  Bare your bosom to the sun,  Do not be afraid of light You who are a child of night.  Open wide your arms to life,  Whirl in the wind of pain and strife,  Face the wall with the dark closed gate,  Beat with bare, brown fists And wait.  This poem is in the public domain.

Read and more GoodPoetry at www.GoodPoetry.org, and listen on Audible, iTunes, Stitcher, Spotify, Anchor.Fm, iHeart, and GooglePlay Music and connect with us @itsGoodPoetry on Facebook, and Twitter. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Photograph Info: George Platt Lynes - This image is available from the United States Library of Congress's Prints and Photographs division under the digital ID cph.3c01955. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The Poem: On Quitting How much grit do you think you've got? Can you quit a thing that you like a lot? You may talk of pluck; it's an easy word, And where'er you go it is often heard; But can you tell to a jot or guess Just how much courage you now possess? You may stand to trouble and keep your grin, But have you tackled self-discipline? Have you ever issued commands to you To quit the things that you like to do, And then, when tempted and sorely swayed, Those rigid orders have you obeyed? Don't boast of your grit till you've tried it out, Nor prate to men of your courage stout, For it's easy enough to retain a grin In the face of a fight there's a chance to win, But the sort of grit that is good to own Is the stuff you need when you're all alone. How much grit do you think you've got? Can you turn from joys that you like a lot? Have you ever tested yourself to know How far with yourself your will can go? If you want to know if you have grit, Just pick out a joy that you like, and quit. It's bully sport and it's open fight; It will keep you busy both day and night; For the toughest kind of a game you'll find Is to make your body obey your mind. And you never will know what is meant by grit Unless there's something you've tried to quit.

Read and more GoodPoetry at www.GoodPoetry.org, and listen on Audible, iTunes, Stitcher, Spotify, Anchor.Fm, iHeart, and GooglePlay Music and connect with us @itsGoodPoetry on Facebook, and Twitter. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Photograph Info: George Platt Lynes - This image is available from the United States Library of Congress's Prints and Photographs division under the digital ID cph.3c01955. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The Poem: A Jelly Fish Visible, invisible,A fluctuating charm,An amber-colored amethystInhabits it; your armApproaches, andIt opens andIt closes;You have meantTo catch it,And it shrivels;You abandonYour intent—It opens, and itCloses and youReach for it—The blueSurrounding itGrows cloudy, andIt floats awayFrom you.

Read and more GoodPoetry at www.GoodPoetry.org, and listen on Audible, iTunes, Stitcher, Spotify, Anchor.Fm, iHeart, and GooglePlay Music and connect with us @itsGoodPoetry on Facebook, and Twitter. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Photograph Info: From the United States Library of Congress's Prints and Photographs division under the digital ID cph.3a40394. .---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The Poem: A Hymn to the Evening Soon as the sun forsook the eastern mainThe pealing thunder shook the heav'nly plain;Majestic grandeur! From the zephyr's wing,Exhales the incense of the blooming spring.Soft purl the streams, the birds renew their notes,And through the air their mingled music floats.Through all the heav'ns what beauteous dies are spread!But the west glories in the deepest red:So may our breasts with ev'ry virtue glow,The living temples of our God below!Fill'd with the praise of him who gives the light,And draws the sable curtains of the night,Let placid slumbers sooth each weary mind,At morn to wake more heav'nly, more refin'd;So shall the labours of the day beginMore pure, more guarded from the snares of sin.Night's leaden sceptre seals my drowsy eyes,Then cease, my song, till fair Aurora rise.

Read and more GoodPoetry at www.GoodPoetry.org, and listen on Audible, iTunes, Stitcher, Spotify, Anchor.Fm, iHeart, and GooglePlay Music and connect with us @itsGoodPoetry on Facebook, and Twitter. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Photograph Info: From the United States Library of Congress's Prints and Photographs division under the digital ID cph.3a40394. .---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The Poem: A Hymn to the Morning ATTEND my lays, ye ever honour'd nine,Assist my labours, and my strains refine;In smoothest numbers pour the notes along,For bright Aurora now demands my song.Aurora hail, and all the thousand dies,Which deck thy progress through the vaulted skies:The morn awakes, and wide extends her rays,On ev'ry leaf the gentle zephyr plays;Harmonious lays the feather'd race resume,Dart the bright eye, and shake the painted plume.Ye shady groves, your verdant gloom displayTo shield your poet from the burning day:Calliope awake the sacred lyre,While thy fair sisters fan the pleasing fire:The bow'rs, the gales, the variegated skiesIn all their pleasures in my bosom rise.See in the east th' illustrious king of day!His rising radiance drives the shades away--But Oh! I feel his fervid beams too strong,And scarce begun, concludes th' abortive song.

Read and more GoodPoetry at www.GoodPoetry.org, and listen on Audible, iTunes, Stitcher, Spotify, Anchor.Fm, iHeart, and GooglePlay Music and connect with us @itsGoodPoetry on Facebook, and Twitter. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Photograph Info: Edna St. Vincent Millay, photographed by Carl Van Vechten, 1933---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The Poem: And if I loved you Wednesday,   Well, what is that to you?I do not love you Thursday—   So much is true. And why you come complaining   Is more than I can see.I loved you Wednesday,—yes—but what   Is that to me?

Read and more GoodPoetry at www.GoodPoetry.org, and listen on Audible, iTunes, Stitcher, Spotify, Anchor.Fm, iHeart, and GooglePlay Music and connect with us @itsGoodPoetry on Facebook, and Twitter. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Photograph Info: Edna St. Vincent Millay in Mamaroneck, NY, 1914, by Arnold Genthe.---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The Poem: Travel The railroad track is miles away,     And the day is loud with voices speaking, Yet there isn't a train goes by all day     But I hear its whistle shrieking. All night there isn't a train goes by,     Though the night is still for sleep and dreaming, But I see its cinders red on the sky,     And hear its engine steaming. My heart is warm with the friends I make,     And better friends I'll not be knowing; Yet there isn't a train I wouldn't take,     No matter where it's going.

Read and more GoodPoetry at www.GoodPoetry.org, and listen on Audible, iTunes, Stitcher, Spotify, Anchor.Fm, iHeart, and GooglePlay Music and connect with us @itsGoodPoetry on Facebook, and Twitter. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Photograph Info: Edna St. Vincent Millay passport photograph---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The Poem: I'll keep a little tavern     Below the high hill's crest,  Wherein all grey-eyed people     May set them down and rest. There shall be plates a-plenty,     And mugs to melt the chill  Of all the grey-eyed people     Who happen up the hill. There sound will sleep the traveller,     And dream his journey's end,  But I will rouse at midnight     The falling fire to tend. Aye, 'tis a curious fancy—     But all the good I know  Was taught me out of two grey eyes     A long time ago.

Read and more GoodPoetry at www.GoodPoetry.org, and listen on Audible, iTunes, Stitcher, Spotify, Anchor.Fm, iHeart, and GooglePlay Music and connect with us @itsGoodPoetry on Facebook, and Twitter. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Photograph Info: Edna St. Vincent Millay in Mamaroneck,[3] NY, 1914, by Arnold Genthe.---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The Poem: I will be the gladdest thing      Under the sun!  I will touch a hundred flowers      And not pick one. I will look at cliffs and clouds      With quiet eyes,  Watch the wind bow down the grass,      And the grass rise. And when lights begin to show      Up from the town,  I will mark which must be mine,      And then start down!

Read and more GoodPoetry at www.GoodPoetry.org, and listen on Audible, iTunes, Stitcher, Spotify, Anchor.Fm, iHeart, and GooglePlay Music and connect with us @itsGoodPoetry on Facebook, and Twitter. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Photograph Info: Edna St. Vincent Millay, photographed by Carl Van Vechten, 1933 ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The Poem: The Unexplorer There was a road ran past our house  Too lovely to explore.  I asked my mother once—she said  That if you followed where it led  It brought you to the milk-man’s door.  (That’s why I have not traveled more.) “The Unexplorer” was published in A Few Figs From Thistles (Harper & Brothers, 1922). This poem is in the public domain.