American on Poem of the Day

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

Mon, 23 Feb 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Let us go then, you and I, When the evening is spread out against the sky Like a patient etherized upon a table; Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets, The muttering retreats Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells: Streets that follow like a tedious argument Of insidious intent To lead you to an overwhelming question… Oh, do not ask, “What is it?” Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes Of the house toward which I move Is a she, and pulls itself upon me with a tongue Licking into the corners of the evening, Lingering upon the pools that stand in streets, Letting fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys, Slipping by the terrace, making a sudden leap, And seeing that it was a soft October night, Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all— Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, I have measured out my life with coffee spoons; I know the voices dying with a dying fall Beneath the music from a farther room. So how should I presume?

And should I then presume? And how should I begin?

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?…

I should have been a pair of ragged claws Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

…But do I dare Disturb the universe? In a minute there are decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

Do I dare Disturb the universe? The women come and go Talking of Michelangelo.

…No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be; Am an attendant lord, one that will do To swell a progress, start a scene or two, advise the prince; Efficient, prudent, meticulous; Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse; At times, indeed, almost ridiculous— Almost, at times, the Fool.

I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker, And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker, And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all, After the cups, the marmalade, the tea, Among some talk of you and me, Would it have been worth while, To have bitten off the matter with a smile, To have squeezed the universe into a ball To roll it towards some overwhelming question, To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead, Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”— If one, settling a pillow by her head, Should say: “That is not it at all, That is not it, at all.”

And the evening with its back turned, flows by like a lonely tragedy— And I have lingered in the chambers of the sea By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

Annabel Lee

Sun, 22 Feb 2026 00:00:00 +0000

It was many and many a year ago, In a kingdom by the sea, That a maiden there lived whom you may know By the name of Annabel Lee; And this maiden she lived with no other thought Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child, In this kingdom by the sea, But we loved with a love that was more than love— I and my Annabel Lee— With a love that the winged seraphs of Heaven Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago, In this kingdom by the sea, A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling My beautiful Annabel Lee; So that her highborn kinsmen came And bore her away from me, To shut her up in a sepulchre In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in Heaven, Went envying her and me— Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know, In this kingdom by the sea) That the wind came out of the cloud by night, Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love Of those who were older than we— Of many far wiser than we— And neither the angels in Heaven above, Nor the demons down under the sea, Can ever dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride, In her sepulchre there by the sea— In her tomb by the sounding sea.

Because I could not stop for Death

Sun, 22 Feb 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Because I could not stop for Death - He kindly stopped for me - The Carriage held but just Ourselves - And Immortality.

We slowly drove - He knew no haste And I had put away My labor - and my leisure too - For His Civility -

We passed the School - where Children strove At Recess - in the Ring - We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain - We passed the Setting Sun -

Or rather - He passed Us - The Dews drew quivering and Chill - For only Gossamer - my Gown - My Tule - my Tulle -

We paused before a House that seemed A Swelling of the Ground - The Roof was scarcely visible - The Cornice - in the Ground -

Since then - ’tis Centuries - and yet Feels shorter than the Day I first surmised the Horses’ Heads Were toward Eternity -

Hope is the Thing with Feathers

Sun, 22 Feb 2026 00:00:00 +0000

“Hope” is the thing with feathers - That perches in the soul - And sings the tune without the words - And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard - And sore must be the storm - That could abash the little Bird That kept so many warm -

I’ve heard it in the chillest land - And on the strangest Sea - Yet, never, in Extremity, It asked a crumb - of me.

O Captain! My Captain!

Sun, 22 Feb 2026 00:00:00 +0000

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done; The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won; The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring: —But O heart! heart! heart! —O the bleeding drops of red! Where on the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills; For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding; For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning: —Here Captain! dear father! This arm beneath your head! It is some dream that on the deck, You’ve fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still; My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will; The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done; From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won; —Exult O shores, and ring O bells! —But I with mournful tread, Walk the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.

Still I Rise

Sun, 22 Feb 2026 00:00:00 +0000

You may write me down in history With your bitter, twisted lies, You may tread me in the very dirt But still, like dust, I’ll rise.

Does it upset you That I don’t have enough words? For every slur, every scar Some silver lining to my life? Just like moons and like suns, With the certainty of tides, Just like hopes springing high, Still I’ll rise.

Did you want to see me broken? Bowed head and lowered eyes? Shoulders falling down like teardrops, Weakened by my soulful cries? Just like air, I’ll rise.

Does it disturb you That I dance like I’ve got diamonds At the meeting of my thighs? Just like air, I’ll rise.

Out of the huts of history’s shame I rise With my head held high I am my people’s dream and hope I rise I rise I rise.

The Raven

Sun, 22 Feb 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Once upon a midnight dreary, as I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore— While I nodded, napping suddenly, there came a tapping gently, rapping, “A 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 dying, glowing ember cast 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 radiant girl whom the angels named Lenore— Nameless here forevermore.

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of the 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, “Sir or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is I was napping, and so gently came your rapping, And so faint the tapping, tapping, tapping at my chamber door— That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;— Darkness there and nothing more.

The Road Not Taken

Sun, 22 Feb 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim, Because it was grassy and wanted wear; Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I— I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.