আমি ! অতি সাধারণ ! তবে আছে এক মন ! যার বিস্তৃত গগণ , যেথায় লক্ষ-কোটি নক্ষত্রের ঘূর্ণায়ন, ও একটি হৃদয়ের সঞ্চালন, যার পুরাটা অসাধারণ । All the world's a stage William Shakespeare All the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely players; They have their exits and their entrances, And one man in his time plays many parts, His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant, Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms. Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel And shining morning face, creeping like snail Unwillingly to school. And then the lover, Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier, Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard, Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel, Seeking the bubble reputation Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice, In fair round belly with good capon lined, With eyes severe and beard of formal cut, Full of wise saws and modern instances; And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts Into the lean and slippered pantaloon, With spectacles on nose and pouch on side; His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice, Turning again toward childish treble, pipes And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all, That ends this strange eventful history, Is second childishness and mere oblivion, Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything. Home They Brought Her Warrior Dead Alfred Lord Tennyson Home they brought her warrior dead: She nor swooned, nor uttered cry: All her maidens, watching, said, 'She must weep or she will die.' Then they praised him, soft and low, Called him worthy to be loved, Truest friend and noblest foe; Yet she neither spoke nor moved. Stole a maiden from her place, Lightly to the warrior stepped, Took the face-cloth from the face; Yet she neither moved nor wept. Rose a nurse of ninety years, Set his child upon her knee-- Like summer tempest came her tears-- 'Sweet my child, I live for thee.' Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening By 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. The old wife and the ghost James Reeves There was an old wife and she lived all alone In a cottage not far from Hitchin; And one bright night, by the full moon light, Comes a ghost right into her kitchen. About that kitchen neat and clean The ghost goes pottering round. But the poor old wife is deaf as a boot And hears never a sound... The ghost blows up the kitchen fire, As bold as bold can be; He helps himself from the larder shelf, But never a sound hears she. He blows his hands to make them warm, And whistles aloud "Whee-hee!" But still as a sack the old soul lies And never a sound hears she. From corner to corner he runs about, And into the cupboard he peeps; He rattles the door and bumps on the floor, But still the old wife sleeps. Jangle and bang go the pots and pans, As he throws them all around; And the plates and mugs and dishes and jugs, He flings them all to the ground. Madly the ghost tears up and down And screams like a storm at sea; And at last the old wife stirs in her bed- And it's "Drat those mice", says she. Then the first cock crows and morning shows And the troublesome ghost's away. But oh! What a pickle the poor wife sees When she gets up next day. 'Them's tidy big mice', the old wife thinks And off she goes to Hitchin, And a tidy big cat she fetches back To keep the mice from her kitchen. The Sands of Dee By Charles Kingsley "O Mary, go and call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, And call the cattle home Across the sands of Dee"; The western wind was wild and dank with foam, And all alone went she. The western tide crept up along the sand, And o'er and o'er the sand, And round and round the sand, As far as eye could see. The rolling mist came down and hid the land: And never home came she. "Oh! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair-- A tress of golden hair, A drowned maiden's hair Above the nets at sea? Was never salmon yet that shone so fair Among the stakes on Dee." They rowed her in across the rolling foam, The cruel crawling foam, The cruel hungry foam, To her grave beside the sea: But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home Across the sands of Dee. The Solitary Reaper William Wordsworth Behold her, single in the field, Yon solitary Highland Lass! Reaping and singing by herself; Stop here, or gently pass! Alone she cuts and binds the grain, And sings a melancholy strain; O listen! for the Vale profound Is overflowing with the sound. No Nightingale did ever chaunt More welcome notes to weary bands Of travellers in some shady haunt, Among Arabian sands: A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird, Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides. Will no one tell me what she sings?-- Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow For old, unhappy, far-off things, And battles long ago: Or is it some more humble lay, Familiar matter of to-day? Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, That has been, and may be again? Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang As if her song could have no ending; I saw her singing at her work, And o'er the sickle bending;-- I listened, motionless and still; And, as I mounted up the hill, The music in my heart I bore, Long after it was heard no more. All the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely players; They have their exits and their entrances, And one man in his time plays many parts, His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant, Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms. Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel And shining morning face, creeping like snail Unwillingly to school. And then the lover, Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier, Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard, Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel, Seeking the bubble reputation Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice, In fair round belly with good capon lined, With eyes severe and beard of formal cut, Full of wise saws and modern instances; And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts Into the lean and slippered pantaloon, With spectacles on nose and pouch on side; His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice, Turning again toward childish treble, pipes And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all, That ends this strange eventful history, Is second childishness and mere oblivion, Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything. William Shakespeare Home They Brought Her Warrior Dead Alfred Lord Tennyson Home they brought her warrior dead: She nor swooned, nor uttered cry: All her maidens, watching, said, 'She must weep or she will die.' Then they praised him, soft and low, Called him worthy to be loved, Truest friend and noblest foe; Yet she neither spoke nor moved. Stole a maiden from her place, Lightly to the warrior stepped, Took the face-cloth from the face; Yet she neither moved nor wept. Rose a nurse of ninety years, Set his child upon her knee-- Like summer tempest came her tears-- 'Sweet my child, I live for thee.' Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening By 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. The old wife and the ghost James Reeves There was an old wife and she lived all alone In a cottage not far from Hitchin; And one bright night, by the full moon light, Comes a ghost right into her kitchen. About that kitchen neat and clean The ghost goes pottering round. But the poor old wife is deaf as a boot And hears never a sound... The ghost blows up the kitchen fire, As bold as bold can be; He helps himself from the larder shelf, But never a sound hears she. He blows his hands to make them warm, And whistles aloud "Whee-hee!" But still as a sack the old soul lies And never a sound hears she. From corner to corner he runs about, And into the cupboard he peeps; He rattles the door and bumps on the floor, But still the old wife sleeps. Jangle and bang go the pots and pans, As he throws them all around; And the plates and mugs and dishes and jugs, He flings them all to the ground. Madly the ghost tears up and down And screams like a storm at sea; And at last the old wife stirs in her bed- And it's "Drat those mice", says she. Then the first cock crows and morning shows And the troublesome ghost's away. But oh! What a pickle the poor wife sees When she gets up next day. 'Them's tidy big mice', the old wife thinks And off she goes to Hitchin, And a tidy big cat she fetches back To keep the mice from her kitchen. The Sands of Dee By Charles Kingsley "O Mary, go and call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, And call the cattle home Across the sands of Dee"; The western wind was wild and dank with foam, And all alone went she. The western tide crept up along the sand, And o'er and o'er the sand, And round and round the sand, As far as eye could see. The rolling mist came down and hid the land: And never home came she. "Oh! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair-- A tress of golden hair, A drowned maiden's hair Above the nets at sea? Was never salmon yet that shone so fair Among the stakes on Dee." They rowed her in across the rolling foam, The cruel crawling foam, The cruel hungry foam, To her grave beside the sea: But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home Across the sands of Dee. The Solitary Reaper William Wordsworth Behold her, single in the field, Yon solitary Highland Lass! Reaping and singing by herself; Stop here, or gently pass! Alone she cuts and binds the grain, And sings a melancholy strain; O listen! for the Vale profound Is overflowing with the sound. No Nightingale did ever chaunt More welcome notes to weary bands Of travellers in some shady haunt, Among Arabian sands: A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird, Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides. Will no one tell me what she sings?-- Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow For old, unhappy, far-off things, And battles long ago: Or is it some more humble lay, Familiar matter of to-day? Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, That has been, and may be again? Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang As if her song could have no ending; I saw her singing at her work, And o'er the sickle bending;-- I listened, motionless and still; And, as I mounted up the hill, The music in my heart I bore, Long after it was heard no more.