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Listen to the following poems. Mark the stresses and tunes. Read and memorize them.

Nursery Rhymes

Jack and Jill went up the hill

To fetch a pail of water J

ack fell down and broke his crown

And Jill came tumbling after.


Twinkle, twinkle little star,

How I wonder what you are.

Up above the world so high,

Like a diamond in the sky.


In winter I get up at night,

And dress by yellow candle light.

In summer quite the other way,

I have to go to bed by day.


I like to go out in the garden,

I like to get up on the wall.

I like to do any thing really,

But I hate to do nothing at all.


There was a young man of Devizes,

Whose ears were of different sizes.

One was so small

It was no use at all,

But the other won several prizes.


One two three four,

Mary at the cottage door.

Five six seven eight,

Eating cherries off a plate.

There was a little girl

And she had a little curl,

Right in the middle of her forehead.

When she was good she was very very good,

But when she was bad she was horrid.

Give a man a pipe he can smoke.

Give a man a book he can read.

And his home is bright

With a calm delight

Though the room is poor indeed.

Hush, Hush, Little Baby

Hush, hush, little baby.

The sun's in the West,

The lamb in the meadow

Has lain down to rest,

The bough rocks the bird now.

The flower rocks the bee,

The wave rocks the lily,

The wind rocks the tree.

And I rock the baby

So softly to sleep It must not awaken

Till daisy buds peep.



James James Morrison Morrison

Whereby George Dupree

Took great care of his mother,

Though he was only three.

James James said to his mother,

"Mother," he said, said he:

"You must never go down to the end of the town

If you don't go down with me."

James James Morrison's mother

Put on a golden gown,

James James Morrison's mother

Drove to the end of the town.

James James Morrison's mother

Said to herself, said she:

"I can get right down to the end of the town

And be back in time for tea."

King John put up a notice,

"Lost or Stolen or Strayed!

James James Morrison's mother

Seems to have been mislaid.

Last seen wandering vaguely,

Quite of her own accord,

She tried to get down to the end of the town

Forty shillings reward!"

James James Morrison Morrison

(Commonly known as Jim)

Told his other relations

Not to go blaming him.

James James said to his mother,

"Mother," he said, said he:

"You must never go down to the end of the town

Without consulting me."

James James Morrison's mother

Hasn't been heard of since.

King John said he was sorry,

So did the Queen and the Prince,

King John (somebody told me)

Said to a man he knew:

"If people go down to the end of the town,

Well, what can anyone do?"

The Arrow and the Song


I shot an arrow into the air,

It fell to earth, I knew not where;

For, so swiftly it flew, the sight

Could not follow it in its flight.

I breathed a song into the air,

It fell to earth, I knew not where;

For who has sight so keen and strong,

That it can follow the flight of a song?

Long, long afterward, in an oak

I found the arrow, still unbroke;

And the song, from beginning to end,

I found again in the heart of a friend.


A. Tennyson

Sweet and low, sweet and low,

Wind of the western sea,

Low, low, breathe and blow,

Wind of the western sea!

Over the rolling waters go,

Come from the dying moon and blow,

Blow him again to me;

While my little one, while my pretty one sleeps.

Sleep and rest, sleep and rest,

Father will come to thee soon;

Rest, rest, on mother's breast,

Father will come to thee soon.

Father will come to his babe in the nest

Silver sails all out of the West,

Under the silver moon.

Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep ...



It is the hour when from the boughs

The nightingale's high note is heard;

It is the hour when lovers' vows

Seem sweet in every whispered word;

And gentle winds and waters near,

Make music to the lovely ear.

Each flower the dews have lightly wet,

And in the sky the stars are met,

And on the wave is deeper blue,

And on the leaf a browner hue,

And in the heaven that clear obscure,

So softly dark, and darkly pure,

Which follows the decline of day,

As twilight melts beneath the moon away.



The sun is set; the swallows are asleep;

The bats are flitting fast in the gray air;

The slow soft toads out of damp corners creep,

And evening's breath, wandering here and there

Over the quivering surface of the stream,

Wakes not one ripple from its silent dream.

There are no dews on the dry grass tonight,

Nor damp within the shadow of the trees;

The wind is intermitting, dry and light;

And in the inconstant motion of the breeze

The dust and straws are driven up and down,

And whirled about the pavement of the town.

The Bells


Hear the sledges with the bells

Silver bells!

What a world of merriment their melody fortells!

How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, In the icy air of night!

While the stars, that oversprinkle

All the heavens, seem to twinkle

With a crystalline delight;

Keeping time, time, time

In a sort of Runic rhyme,

To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells

From the bells, bells, bells, bells,

Bells, bells, bells.

From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.


"Adieu! Adieu! my native shore

Fades o'er the waters blue;

The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar,

And shrieks the wild sea-mew.

Yon sun that sets upon the sea

We follow in his flight;

Farewell awhile to him and thee,

My native Land Good Night!

"A few short hours, and he will rise

To give the morrow birth;

And I shall hail the main and skies,



But not my mother earth.

Deserted is my own good hall,

Its hearth is desolate;

Wild weeds are gathering on the wall;

My dog howls at the gate.

"With thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go

Athwart the foaming brine;

Nor care what land thou bear'st me to,

So not again to mine.

Welcome, welcome, ye dark blue waves!

And when you fail my sight,

Welcome, ye deserts, and ye caves!

My native Land Good Night!"

(From "Childe Harold's Pilgrimages")

My Soul is Dark


My soul is dark Oh! quickly string

The harp I yet can brook to hear;

And let thy gentle fingers fling

Its melting murmurs o'er mine ear.

If in this heart a hope be dear,

That sound shall charm it forth again:

If in these eyes there lurk a tear,

"Twill flow, and cease to burn my brain.

But bid the strain be wild and deep,

Nor let thy notes of joy be first:

I tell thee, minstrel, I must weep

Or else this heavy heart will burst;

For it hath been by sorrow nursed,

And ached in sleepless silence long:

And now 'tis doomed to know the worst,

And break at once or yield to song.

She is not Fair

Hartley Coleridge

She is not fair to outward view,

As many maidens be;

Her loveliness I never knew

Until she smiled on me.

Oh, then I saw her eye was bright,

A well of love, a spring of light.

But now her looks are coy and cold

To mine they ne'er reply;

And yet I cease not to behold

The love-light in her eye.

Her very frowns are sweeter far

Than smiles of other maidens are.

Date: 2015-12-17; view: 1051

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