. One hundred and one famous poems, with a prose supplement. Crossing the Bar Alfred Tennyson (Born August 6, 1809; Died October ) Sunset and evening star, And one clear call for me,And may there be no moaning of the bar, When I put out to sea. But such a tide as moving seems asleep. Too full for sound and foam,When that which drew from out the boundless deep Turns again home. Twilight and evening bell, And after that the dark!And may there be no sadness of farewell, When I embark; For tho from out our bourne of time and place The flood may bear me far,I hope to see my Pilot face to face
. One hundred and one famous poems, with a prose supplement. Crossing the Bar Alfred Tennyson (Born August 6, 1809; Died October ) Sunset and evening star, And one clear call for me,And may there be no moaning of the bar, When I put out to sea. But such a tide as moving seems asleep. Too full for sound and foam,When that which drew from out the boundless deep Turns again home. Twilight and evening bell, And after that the dark!And may there be no sadness of farewell, When I embark; For tho from out our bourne of time and place The flood may bear me far,I hope to see my Pilot face to face When I have crossed the bar. Page One Hundred and Forty-two ©its {J&rXtn&xzb ztnb (&tts Jlfatmro* Tfitxtm*. Soliloquy fromHamlet William Shakespeare (Bom April 23 (?), 1564; Died April ) To be, or not to be; that is the question; Whether tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And by opposing end them. To die: to sleep: No more; and by a sleep to say we end The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to; tis a consummation - Devoutly to be wished. To die; to sleep; To sleep: perchance to dream: aye, theres the rub; For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause: theres the respect That makes calamity of so long life; For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, The oppressors wrong, the proud mans contumely The pangs of despisd love, the laws delay, The insolence of office, and the spurns That patient merit of the unworthy takes, When he himself might his quietus make With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear, To
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