A choice of poems Visions vwo
Eleanor Rigby
John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Ah, look at all the lonely people.
Ah, look at all the lonely people.
Eleanor Rigby picks up the rice in the church where a wedding has been.
Lives in a dream.
Waits at the window, wearing the face that she keeps in a jar by the door,
Who is it for?
All the lonely people, where do they all come from?
All the lonely people, where do they all belong?
Ah, look at all the lonely people.
Ah, look at all the lonely people.
Eleanor Rigby died in the church and was buried along with her name.
Nobody came.
Father McKenzie, wiping the dirt from his hands as he walks from the grave.
No one was saved.
All the lonely people, where do they all come from?
All the lonely people, where do they all belong?
Summer
Christina Rossetti
Rushes in a watery place,
And reeds in a hollow;
A soaring skylark in the sky,
A darting swallow;
And where pale blossom used to hang
Ripe fruit to follow.
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
Robert Frost
Whose woods these are I think I know,
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
Touchdown 2nd edition - Visions vwo 1
Not Waving but Drowning
Stevie Smith
Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.
Poor chap, he always loved larking
And now he’s dead
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,
They said.
Oh, no no no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving but drowning.
In this City
Alan Brownjohn
In this city, perhaps a street.
In this street, perhaps a house.
In this house perhaps a room
And in this room a woman sitting,
Sitting in the darkness, sitting and crying
For someone who has just gone through the door
And who has just switched off the light
Forgetting she was there.
A Sad Song About Greenwich Village
Frances Park
She lives in a garret
Up a haunted stair,
And even when she is frightened
There’s nobody to care.
She cooks so small a dinner
She dines on the smell,
And even if she’s hungry
There’s nobody to tell.
She sweeps her musty lodging
As the dawn steal near,
And even when she’s crying
There’s nobody to hear.
I haven’t seen my neighbor
Since a long time ago,
And even if she’s dead
There’s nobody to know.
Touchdown 2nd edition - Visions vwo 2