Song of Years

by: Edgar Allan Poe


The thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne as I best could, but when he ventured upon insult I vowed revenge. You, who so well know the nature of my soul, will not suppose, however, that gave utterance to a threat. At length I would be avenged; this was a point definitely, settled --but the very definitiveness with which it was resolved precluded the idea of risk. I must not only punish but punish with impunity. A wrong is unredressed when retribution overtakes its redresser. It is equally unredressed when the avenger fails to make himself felt as such to him who has done the wrong.

It must be understood that neither by word nor deed had I given Fortunato cause to doubt my good will. I continued, as was my in to smile in his face, and he did not perceive that my to smile now was at the thought of his immolation.

He had a weak point --this Fortunato --although in other regards he was a man to be respected and even feared. He prided himself on his connoisseurship in wine. Few Italians have the true virtuoso spirit. For the most part their enthusiasm is adopted to suit the time and opportunity, to practise imposture upon the British and Austrian millionaires. In painting and gemmary, Fortunato, like his countrymen, was a quack, but in the matter of old wines he was sincere. In this respect I did not differ from him materially; --I was skilful in the Italian vintages myself, and bought largely whenever I could.

It was about dusk, one evening during the supreme madness of the carnival season, that I encountered my friend. He accosted me with excessive warmth, for he had been drinking much. The man wore motley. He had on a tight-fitting parti-striped dress, and his head was surmounted by the conical cap and bells. I was so pleased to see him that I thought I should never have done wringing his hand.

by: Robert Frost

by: O. Henry

In a little district west of Washington Square the streets have run crazy and broken themselves into small strips called "places." These "places" make strange angles and curves. One Street crosses itself a time or two. An artist once discovered a valuable possibility in this street. Suppose a collector with a bill for paints, paper and canvas should, in traversing this route, suddenly meet himself coming back, without a cent having been paid on account!

So, to quaint old Greenwich Village the art people soon came prowling, hunting for north windows and eighteenth-century gables and Dutch attics and low rents. Then they imported some pewter mugs and a chafing dish or two from Sixth Avenue, and became a "colony."

At the top of a squatty, three-story brick Sue and Johnsy had their studio. "Johnsy" was familiar for Joanna. One was from Maine; the other from California. They had met at the table d'hôte of an Eighth Street "Delmonico's," and found their tastes in art, chicory salad and bishop sleeves so congenial that the joint studio resulted.

That was in May. In November a cold, unseen stranger, whom the doctors called Pneumonia, stalked about the colony, touching one here and there with his icy fingers. Over on the east side this ravager strode boldly, smiting his victims by scores, but his feet trod slowly through the maze of the narrow and moss-grown "places."

by: Frank R. Stockton

Molly, Duchess Of Nona Maurice Howlett Little Novel Of Italy

by: Robert Browning

That’s my last Duchess painted on the wall,
looking as if she were alive. I call
that piece a wonder, now: Fra Pandolf’s hands
worked busily a day, and there she stands.
Will’t please you sit and look at her? I said
“Fra Pandolf” by design, for never read
strangers like you that pictured countenance,
the depth and passion of its earnest glance,
but to myself they turned (since none puts by
the curtain I have drawn for you, but I)
and seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,
how such a glance came there; so, not the first
are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, ’twas not
her husband’s presence only, called that spot
of joy into the Duchess’ cheek: perhaps
Fra Pandolf chanced to say “Her mantle laps
over my lady’s wrist too much,” or “Paint
must never hope to reproduce the faint
half-flush that dies along her throat”: such stuff
was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough
for calling up that spot of joy. She had

by: Francis C. Macasantos

It would be nice to have a house
with a yard big enough to put a garden in.
In front of the house, of course, facing the sunrise.
I suppose they must have gardens and gardens of these
out there in the country, where they came from...
So early in the morning yet, yes?
Jeepload of them I hear.
Only, I never get to wake up that early.
It must be nice to have a job like that...
Just pick them at early dawn
and you've got room and board, yes?
It would be nice to put them under the pillow-cover
and let their sweet perfume put you to sleep.
But how would I know where they end up
before I get to sleep, somewhere?
The poor things... they gey wilted and dusty
at the end of the day. But my customers don't complain.
Mommy says to smile and offer up the garland
Until the fellow bends. Ha! Ha! Then you can see his scalp!
But you must gently shake your head if he dig for some coins.

by: Robert Frost

Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,
And spills the upper boulders in the sun,
And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.
The work of hunters is another thing:
I have come after them and made repair
Where they have left not one stone on a stone,
But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,
To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,
No one has seen them made or heard them made,
But at spring mending-time we find them there.

by: Rene Estrella Amper

Pete, old friend;
there isn't really much change
in our hometown since you left.

This morning I couldn't find anymore
the grave of Simeona, the cat we buried
at the foot of Miguel's Mango tree,
when we were in grade four,
after she was hit by a truck while crossing
the street. The bulldozer has messed it up
while making the feeder road into the mountains
to reach the hearts of the farmers.
The farmers come down every Sunday
to sell their agony and their sweat for
a few pesos, lose in the cockpit or get
drunk on the way home.