To Thine Own Self Be True

-William Shakespeare in Hamlet, Act I, Scene iii (Said by Polonius to his son Laertes)

Yet here, Laertes! aboard, aboard, for shame!
The wind sits in the shoulder of your sail,
And you are stay'd for. There; my blessing with thee!
And these few precepts in thy memory
See thou character. Give thy thoughts no tongue,
Nor any unproportioned thought his act.
Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar.
Those friends thou hast, and their adoption tried,
Grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel;
But do not dull thy palm with entertainment
Of each new-hatch'd, unfledged comrade. Beware
Of entrance to a quarrel, but being in,
Bear't that the opposed may beware of thee.
Give every man thy ear, but few thy voice;
Take each man's censure, but reserve thy judgment.
Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy,
But not express'd in fancy; rich, not gaudy;
For the apparel oft proclaims the man,
And they in France of the best rank and station
Are of a most select and generous chief in that.
Neither a borrower nor a lender be;
For loan oft loses both itself and friend,
And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry.
This above all: to thine ownself be true,
And it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man.
Farewell: my blessing season this in thee!

Ode On A Grecian Urn

-John Keats (1819)

Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness,
    Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
    A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fring'd legend haunt about thy shape
    Of deities or mortals, or of both,
        In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
    What men or gods are these?  What maidens loth?
What mad pursuit?  What struggle to escape?
        What pipes and timbrels?  What wild ecstasy?


Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
    Are sweeter: therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,
    Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
    Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
        Bold lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal - yet, do not grieve;
        She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
    For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!


Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
    Your leaves, nor ever bid the spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearied,
    For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
    For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,
        For ever panting, and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
    That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,
        A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.

Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
    To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
    And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
What little town by river or sea shore,
    Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
        Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
    Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
        Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.

O Attic shape!  Fair attitude! with brede
    Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
    Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
    When old age shall this generation waste,
        Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
    Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
"Beauty is truth, truth beauty," - that is all
        Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.

One Autumn Day

-Sanjeev Pradhan (2004)

A heavenly sprinkle the conifers cast
conceals the paths of past;
a tiny bird in the gleeful woods come out to fly,
journey far it would have with the autumn
passing by.
Orange, yellow by this small
wonder many colours worn.
Over twirling weather-cocks and flat hill-tops,
fans the moistur'd breeze,
leaving for a destination unknown;
thou messenger of love on earth!

Descends down from divergent branches
with the lone that finds its way.
Leaning sideby a window frame,
a 'hello' to them the couple old it says.
With quick eyes and a beakly nod
seems to join their talk.
How memorable were the yesteryears!
the times which were theirs,
remember'd in the stillnight
warmed by the hearth.
Stumbles then upon the whispering air;
Ah! the cradled sway
back again to nature's care.
And envy not here it slips
In the cosy retreat of the circled stacks
and the carpet of pushed-in twigs.

Okee Pokee

Okee-Pokee-Crack-me-Crown,
King of the Island of Gulp-em-Down
Was thought the finest young fellow in town
When he dressed in his best for the party.

Okaa-Pokaa-Ching-Ma-Ring
Eighteenth wife of the mighty king
Loved her lord above everything
And dressed him up for the party.

Satins and silks the Queen did lack,
But she'd some red paint that looked well on black,
So she painted her lord and master's back
Before he went out to the party.

Crowns and stars, and ships with sails,
And flying dragons with curly tails--
"That's a dress," said the Queen, "that never fails
To charm all folks at a party."

So, painted up till he looked his best,
With pipe in mouth and feather in crest,
Okee-Pokee marched out without a coat or vest,
But yet in full dress, to the party.

(I cannot find my school book that has this poem. I hope this is the complete and unabridged version. Whenever I find my old school text, I will cross-check and make any changes that are required. -Peeves
Update-I found the school book today. I have updated the punctuation and the last two stanzas. I was delighted to finally find the book. -Peeves)

ऋतू हिरवा

ऋतू हिरवा, ऋतू बरवा
पाचूचा वनी रुजवा
युगविरही हृदयावर, सरसरतो मधूशिरवा

भिजूनी उन्हे चमचमती, क्षण दिपती क्षण लपती
नितळ निळया अवकाशी, मधुगंधी तरल हवा

मनभावन हा श्रावण, प्रियसाजण हा श्रावण
भिजवी तन, भिजवी मन हा श्रावण
थरथरत्या अधरावर, प्रणयी संकेत नवा

नभी उमटे इंद्रधनू, मदनाचे चाप जणू
गगनाशी धरणीचा, जूळवितसे सहज दुवा

गीतकार: शांता शेळके

संगीतकार: श्रीधर फडके

गायक: आशा भोसले  

The Tiger

-William Blake

Tiger, tiger, 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 and what art
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand and 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?

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

The Spider And The Fly

-Mary Howitt (1821)

Will you walk into my parlour?" said the Spider to the Fly,
'Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy;
The way into my parlour is up a winding stair,
And I've a many curious things to shew when you are there."
Oh no, no," said the little Fly, "to ask me is in vain,
For who goes up your winding stair can ne'er come down again."

"I'm sure you must be weary, dear, with soaring up so high;
Will you rest upon my little bed?" said the Spider to the Fly.
"There are pretty curtains drawn around; the sheets are fine and thin,
And if you like to rest awhile, I'll snugly tuck you in!"
Oh no, no," said the little Fly, "for I've often heard it said,
They never, never wake again, who sleep upon your bed!

Said the cunning Spider to the Fly, " Dear friend what can I do,
To prove the warm affection I 've always felt for you?
I have within my pantry, good store of all that's nice;
I'm sure you're very welcome -- will you please to take a slice?"
"Oh no, no," said the little Fly, "kind Sir, that cannot be,
I've heard what's in your pantry, and I do not wish to see!"

"Sweet creature!" said the Spider, "you're witty and you're wise,
How handsome are your gauzy wings, how brilliant are your eyes!
I've a little looking-glass upon my parlour shelf,
If you'll step in one moment, dear, you shall behold yourself."
"I thank you, gentle sir," she said, "for what you 're pleased to say,
And bidding you good morning now, I'll call another day."


The Spider turned him round about, and went into his den,
For well he knew the silly Fly would soon come back again:
So he wove a subtle web, in a little corner sly,
And set his table ready, to dine upon the Fly.
Then he came out to his door again, and merrily did sing,
"Come hither, hither, pretty Fly, with the pearl and silver wing;
Your robes are green and purple -- there's a crest upon your head;
Your eyes are like the diamond bright, but mine are dull as lead!"

Alas, alas! how very soon this silly little Fly,
Hearing his wily, flattering words, came slowly flitting by;
With buzzing wings she hung aloft, then near and nearer drew,
Thinking only of her brilliant eyes, and green and purple hue --
Thinking only of her crested head -- poor foolish thing! At last,
Up jumped the cunning Spider, and fiercely held her fast.
He dragged her up his winding stair, into his dismal den,
Within his little parlour -- but she ne'er came out again!

And now dear little children, who may this story read,
To idle, silly flattering words, I pray you ne'er give heed:
Unto an evil counsellor, close heart and ear and eye,
And take a lesson from this tale, of the Spider and the Fly.