Poem Recitation

Poems for Recitation Competition

Grade 3: "The Crocodile" by Lewis Carroll

How doth the little crocodile

/haʊ dʌθ ðə ˈlɪtəl ˈkrɒkədaɪl/

Improve his shining tail,

/ɪmˈpruːv hɪz ˈʃaɪnɪŋ teɪl,/

And pour the waters of the Nile

/ənd pɔː ðə ˈwɔːtəz əv ðə naɪl/

On every golden scale!

/ɒn ˈɛvri ˈɡəʊldən skeɪl!/

How cheerfully he seems to grin,

/haʊ ˈʧɪəfəli hi siːmz tə ɡrɪn,/

How neatly spreads his claws,

/haʊ ˈniːtli sprɛdz hɪz klɔːz,/

And welcomes little fishes in

/ənd ˈwɛlkəmz ˈlɪtəl ˈfɪʃɪz ɪn/

With gently smiling jaws!

/wɪð ˈʤɛntli ˈsmaɪlɪŋ ʤɔːz!/

Grade 4: "The Wind" by Christina Rossetti

Who has seen the wind?

/huː həz siːn ðə wɪnd?/

Neither I nor you:

/ˈnaɪðər aɪ nɔː juː:/

But when the leaves hang trembling,

/bət wɛn ðə liːvz hæŋ ˈtrɛmblɪŋ,/

The wind is passing through.

/ðə wɪnd ɪz ˈpɑːsɪŋ θruː./

Who has seen the wind?

/huː həz siːn ðə wɪnd?/

Neither you nor I:

/ˈnaɪðə juː nɔːr aɪ:/

But when the trees bow down their heads,

/bət wɛn ðə triːz baʊ daʊn ðeə hɛdz,/

The wind is passing by.

/ðə wɪnd ɪz ˈpɑːsɪŋ baɪ./

Grade 5: "Leisure" by W. H. Davies

What is this life if, full of care,

/wɒt ɪz ðɪs laɪf ɪf, fʊl əv keə,/

We have no time to stand and stare.

/wi həv nəʊ taɪm tə stænd ənd steə./

No time to stand beneath the boughs

/nəʊ taɪm tə stænd bɪˈniːθ ðə baʊz/

And stare as long as sheep or cows.

/ənd steər æz lɒŋ æz ʃiːp ɔː kaʊz./

No time to see, when woods we pass,

/nəʊ taɪm tə siː, wɛn wʊdz wi pɑːs,/

Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.

/weə ˈskwɪrəlz haɪd ðeə nʌts ɪn ɡrɑːs./

No time to see, in broad daylight,

/nəʊ taɪm tə siː, ɪn brɔːd ˈdeɪlaɪt,/

Streams full of stars, like skies at night.

/striːmz fʊl əv stɑːz, laɪk skaɪz æt naɪt./

No time to turn at Beauty’s glance,

/nəʊ taɪm tə tɜːn æt ˈbjuːtiz ɡlɑːns,/

And watch her feet, how they can dance.

/ənd wɒʧ hə fiːt, haʊ ðeɪ kən dɑːns./

No time to wait till her mouth can

/nəʊ taɪm tə weɪt tɪl hə maʊθ kæn/

Enrich that smile her eyes began.

/ɛnˈrɪʧ ðæt smaɪl hər aɪz bɪˈɡæn./

A poor life this if, full of care,

/ə pʊə laɪf ðɪs ɪf, fʊl əv keə,/

We have no time to stand and stare.

/wi həv nəʊ taɪm tə stænd ənd steə./

Grade 6: "The Listeners" by Walter de la Mare

“Is there anybody there?” said the Traveller,

/“ɪz ðeər ˈɛnibɒdi ðeə?” sɛd ðə ˈtrævələ,/

Knocking on the moonlit door;

/ˈnɒkɪŋ ɒn ðə ˈmuːnlɪt dɔː;/

And his horse in the silence champed the grasses

/ənd hɪz hɔːs ɪn ðə ˈsaɪləns ʧæmpt ðə ˈɡrɑːsɪz/

Of the forest’s ferny floor:

/əv ðə ˈfɒrɪsts ˈfɜːni flɔː:/

And a bird flew up out of the turret,

/ənd ə bɜːd fluː ʌp aʊt əv ðə ˈtʌrɪt,/

Above the Traveller’s head:

/əˈbʌv ðə ˈtrævələz hɛd:/

And he smote upon the door again a second time;

/ənd hi sməʊt əˈpɒn ðə dɔːr əˈɡɛn ə ˈsɛkənd taɪm;/

“Is there anybody there?” he said.

/“ɪz ðeər ˈɛnibɒdi ðeə?” hi sɛd./

But no one descended to the Traveller;

/bət nəʊ wʌn dɪˈsɛndɪd tə ðə ˈtrævələ;/

No head from the leaf-fringed sill

/nəʊ hɛd frəm ðə liːf-frɪnʤd sɪl/

Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes,

/liːnd ˈəʊvər ənd lʊkt ˈɪntuː hɪz ɡreɪ aɪz,/

Where he stood perplexed and still.

/weə hi stʊd pəˈplɛkst ənd stɪl./

But only a host of phantom listeners

/bət ˈəʊnli ə həʊst əv ˈfæntəm ˈlɪsənəz/

That dwelt in the lone house then

/ðət dwɛlt ɪn ðə ləʊn haʊs ðɛn/

Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight

/stʊd ˈlɪsnɪŋ ɪn ðə ˈkwaɪət əv ðə ˈmuːnlaɪt/

To that voice from the world of men:

/tə ðæt vɔɪs frəm ðə wɜːld əv mɛn:/

Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair,

/stʊd ˈθrɒŋɪŋ ðə feɪnt ˈmuːnbiːmz ɒn ðə dɑːk steə,/

That goes down to the empty hall,

/ðət ɡəʊz daʊn tə ði ˈɛmpti hɔːl,/

Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken

/ˈhɑːkənɪŋ ɪn ən eə stɜːd ənd ˈʃeɪkən/

By the lonely Traveller’s call.

/baɪ ðə ˈləʊnli ˈtrævələz kɔːl./

And he felt in his heart their strangeness,

/ənd hi fɛlt ɪn hɪz hɑːt ðeə ˈstreɪnʤnəs,/

Their stillness answering his cry,

/ðeə ˈstɪlnəs ˈɑːnsərɪŋ hɪz kraɪ,/

While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf,

/waɪl hɪz hɔːs muːvd, ˈkrɒpɪŋ ðə dɑːk tɜːf,/

’Neath the starred and leafy sky;

/niːθ ðə stɑːd ənd ˈliːfi skaɪ;/

For he suddenly smote on the door, even

/fɔː hi ˈsʌdənli sməʊt ɒn ðə dɔː, ˈiːvən/

Louder, and lifted his head:—

/ˈlaʊdər, ənd ˈlɪftɪd hɪz hɛd:—/

“Tell them I came, and no one answered,

/“tɛl ðəm aɪ keɪm, ənd nəʊ wʌn ˈɑːnsəd,/

That I kept my word,” he said.

/ðət aɪ kɛpt maɪ wɜːd,” hi sɛd./

Never the least stir made the listeners,

/ˈnɛvə ðə liːst stɜː meɪd ðə ˈlɪsənəz,/

Though every word he spake

/ðəʊ ˈɛvri wɜːd hi speɪk/

Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house

/fɛl ˈɛkəʊɪŋ θruː ðə ˈʃædəʊɪnəs əv ðə stɪl haʊs/

From the one man left awake:

/frəm ðə wʌn mæn lɛft əˈweɪk:/

Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup,

/aɪ, ðeɪ hɜːd hɪz fʊt əˈpɒn ðə ˈstɪrəp,/

And the sound of iron on stone,

/ənd ðə saʊnd əv ˈaɪən ɒn stəʊn,/

And how the silence surged softly backward,

/ənd haʊ ðə ˈsaɪləns sɜːʤd ˈsɒftli ˈbækwəd,/

When the plunging hoofs were gone.

/wɛn ðə ˈplʌnʤɪŋ huːfs wɜː ɡɒn./

Grade 7: "The Raven" by Edgar Allan Poe

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

/wʌns əˈpɒn ə ˈmɪdnaɪt ˈdrɪəri, waɪl aɪ ˈpɒndəd, wiːk ənd ˈwɪəri,/

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—

/ˈəʊvə ˈmɛni ə kweɪnt ənd ˈkjʊəriəs ˈvɒljuːm əv fəˈɡɒtən lɔː—/

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

/waɪl aɪ ˈnɒdɪd, ˈnɪəli ˈnæpɪŋ, ˈsʌdənli ðeə keɪm ə ˈtæpɪŋ,/

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

/æz əv sʌm wʌn ˈʤɛntli ˈræpɪŋ, ˈræpɪŋ æt maɪ ˈʧeɪmbə dɔː./

“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—

/“tɪz sʌm ˈvɪzɪtə,” aɪ ˈmʌtəd, “ˈtæpɪŋ æt maɪ ˈʧeɪmbə dɔː—/

Only this and nothing more.”

/ˈəʊnli ðɪs ənd ˈnʌθɪŋ mɔː.”/

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;

/ɑː, dɪsˈtɪŋktli aɪ rɪˈmɛmbər ɪt wəz ɪn ðə bliːk dɪˈsɛmbə;/

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

/ənd iːʧ ˈsɛpərət ˈdaɪɪŋ ˈɛmbə rɔːt ɪts ɡəʊst əˈpɒn ðə flɔː./

Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow

/ˈiːɡəli aɪ wɪʃt ðə ˈmɒrəʊ;—ˈveɪnli aɪ həd sɔːt tə ˈbɒrəʊ/

From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—

/frəm maɪ bʊks səˈsiːs əv ˈsɒrəʊ—ˈsɒrəʊ fɔː ðə lɒst ləˈnɔː—/

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—

/fɔː ðə reər ənd ˈreɪdiənt ˈmeɪdən huːm ði ˈeɪnʤəlz neɪm ləˈnɔː—/

Nameless here for evermore.

/ˈneɪmləs hɪə fɔːr ˈɛvəmɔː./

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain

/ənd ðə ˈsɪlkən, sæd, ʌnˈsɜːtən ˈrʌslɪŋ əv iːʧ ˈpɜːpəl ˈkɜːtən/

Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;

/θrɪld miː—fɪld mi wɪð fænˈtæstɪk ˈtɛrəz ˈnɛvə fɛlt bɪˈfɔː;/

So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating

/səʊ ðət naʊ, tə stɪl ðə ˈbiːtɪŋ əv maɪ hɑːt, aɪ stʊd rɪˈpiːtɪŋ/

“’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—

/“tɪz sʌm ˈvɪzɪtər ɛnˈtriːtɪŋ ˈɛntrəns æt maɪ ˈʧeɪmbə dɔː—/

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—

/sʌm leɪt ˈvɪzɪtər ɛnˈtriːtɪŋ ˈɛntrəns æt maɪ ˈʧeɪmbə dɔː;—/

This it is and nothing more.”

/ðɪs ɪt ɪz ənd ˈnʌθɪŋ mɔː.”/

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,

/ˈprɛzəntli maɪ səʊl ɡruː ˈstrɒŋɡə; ˈhɛzɪteɪtɪŋ ðɛn nəʊ ˈlɒŋɡə,/

“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;

/“sɜː,” sɛd aɪ, “ɔː ˈmædəm, ˈtruːli jɔː fəˈɡɪvnəs aɪ ɪmˈplɔː;/

But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,

/bət ðə fækt ɪz aɪ wəz ˈnæpɪŋ, ənd səʊ ˈʤɛntli ju keɪm ˈræpɪŋ,/

And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,

/ənd səʊ ˈfeɪntli ju keɪm ˈtæpɪŋ, ˈtæpɪŋ æt maɪ ˈʧeɪmbə dɔː,/

That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—

/ðət aɪ skeəs wəz ʃʊər aɪ hɜːd juː”—hɪər aɪ ˈəʊpənd waɪd ðə dɔː;—/

Darkness there and nothing more.

/ˈdɑːknəs ðeər ənd ˈnʌθɪŋ mɔː./

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,

/diːp ˈɪntuː ðæt ˈdɑːknəs ˈpɪərɪŋ, lɒŋ aɪ stʊd ðeə ˈwʌndərɪŋ, ˈfɪərɪŋ,/

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;

/ˈdaʊtɪŋ, ˈdriːmɪŋ driːmz nəʊ ˈmɔːtəl ˈɛvə deəd tə driːm bɪˈfɔː;/

But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,

/bət ðə ˈsaɪləns wəz ʌnˈbrəʊkən, ənd ðə ˈstɪlnəs ɡeɪv nəʊ ˈtəʊkən,/

And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”

/ənd ði ˈəʊnli wɜːd ðeə ˈspəʊkən wəz ðə ˈwɪspəd wɜːd, “ləˈnɔː?”/

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”—

/ðɪs aɪ ˈwɪspəd, ənd ən ˈɛkəʊ ˈmɜːməd bæk ðə wɜːd, “ləˈnɔː!”—/

Grade 8: "The Highwayman" by Alfred Noyes

PART ONE

The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees.

/ðə wɪnd wəz ə ˈtɒrənt əv ˈdɑːknɪs əˈmʌŋ ðə ˈɡʌsti triːz./

The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas.

/ðə muːn wəz ə ˈɡəʊstli ˈɡæliən tɒst əˈpɒn ˈklaʊdi siːz./

The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,

/ðə rəʊd wəz ə ˈrɪbən əv ˈmuːnlaɪt ˈəʊvə ðə ˈpɜːpəl mʊə,/

And the highwayman came riding—

/ənd ðə ˈhaɪweɪmən keɪm ˈraɪdɪŋ—/

Riding—riding—

/ˈraɪdɪŋ—ˈraɪdɪŋ—/

The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

/ðə ˈhaɪweɪmən keɪm ˈraɪdɪŋ, ʌp tə ði əʊld ɪn-dɔː./

He’d a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,

/hiːd ə frɛnʧ kɒkt-hæt ɒn hɪz ˈfɒrɪd, ə bʌnʧ əv leɪs æt hɪz ʧɪn,/

A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin;

/ə kəʊt əv ðə ˈklærət ˈvɛlvɪt, ənd ˈbrɪʧɪz əv braʊn dəʊ-skɪn;/

They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh!

/ðeɪ ˈfɪtɪd wɪð ˈnɛvər ə ˈrɪŋkəl: hɪz buːts wər ʌp tə ðə θaɪ!/

And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,

/ənd hi rəʊd wɪð ə ˈʤuːəld ˈtwɪŋkəl,/

His pistol butts a-twinkle,

/hɪz ˈpɪstəl bʌts ə-ˈtwɪŋkəl,/

His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.

/hɪz ˈreɪpɪə hɪlt ə-ˈtwɪŋkəl, ˈʌndə ðə ˈʤuːəld skaɪ./

Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,

/ˈəʊvə ðə ˈkɒbəlz hi ˈklætəd ənd klæʃt ɪn ðə dɑːk ɪn-jɑːd,/

And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred;

/ənd hi tæpt wɪð hɪz wɪp ɒn ðə ˈʃʌtəz, bət ɔːl wəz lɒkt ənd bɑːd;/

He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there

/hi ˈwɪsəld ə tjuːn tə ðə ˈwɪndəʊ, ənd huː ʃʊd bi ˈweɪtɪŋ ðeə/

But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,

/bət ðə ˈlændlɔːdz blæk-aɪd ˈdɔːtə,/

Bess, the landlord’s daughter,

/bɛs, ðə ˈlændlɔːdz ˈdɔːtə,/

Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

/ˈplætɪŋ ə dɑːk rɛd lʌv-nɒt ˈɪntuː hə lɒŋ blæk heə./

And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked

/ənd dɑːk ɪn ðə dɑːk əʊld ɪn-jɑːd ə ˈsteɪbəl-ˈwɪkɪt kriːkt/

Where Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked;

/weə tɪm ði ˈɒstlə ˈlɪsənd; hɪz feɪs wəz waɪt ənd piːkt;/

His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,

/hɪz aɪz wɜː ˈhɒləʊz əv ˈmædnəs, hɪz heə laɪk ˈməʊldi heɪ,/

But he loved the landlord’s daughter,

/bət hi lʌvd ðə ˈlændlɔːdz ˈdɔːtə,/

The landlord’s red-lipped daughter,

/ðə ˈlændlɔːdz rɛd-lɪpt ˈdɔːtə,/

Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—

/dʌm æz ə dɒɡ hi ˈlɪsənd, ənd hi hɜːd ðə ˈrɒbə seɪ—/

“One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I’m after a prize to-night,

/“wʌn kɪs, maɪ ˈbɒni ˈswiːthɑːt, aɪm ˈɑːftər ə praɪz tə-naɪt,/

But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;

/bət aɪ ʃəl bi bæk wɪð ðə ˈjɛləʊ ɡəʊld bɪˈfɔː ðə ˈmɔːnɪŋ laɪt;/

Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,

/jɛt, ɪf ðeɪ prɛs mi ˈʃɑːpli, ənd ˈhæri mi θruː ðə deɪ,/

Then look for me by moonlight,

/ðɛn lʊk fɔː mi baɪ ˈmuːnlaɪt,/

Watch for me by moonlight,

/wɒʧ fɔː mi baɪ ˈmuːnlaɪt,/

I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.”

/aɪl kʌm tə ðiː baɪ ˈmuːnlaɪt, ðəʊ hɛl ʃʊd bɑː ðə weɪ.”/

He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,

/hi rəʊz ˈʌpraɪt ɪn ðə ˈstɪrəps; hi skeəs kʊd riːʧ hə hænd,/

But she loosened her hair i’ the casement! His face burnt like a brand

/bət ʃi ˈluːsənd hə heər ɪ ðə ˈkeɪsmənt! hɪz feɪs bɜːnt laɪk ə brænd/

As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling o’er his breast;

/æz ðə blæk kæsˈkeɪd əv ˈpɜːfjuːm keɪm ˈtʌmblɪŋ ɔː hɪz brɛst;/

And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,

/ənd hi kɪst ɪts weɪvz ɪn ðə ˈmuːnlaɪt,/

(Oh, sweet black waves in the moonlight!)

/(əʊ, swiːt blæk weɪvz ɪn ðə ˈmuːnlaɪt!)/

Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the West.

/ðɛn hi tʌɡd æt hɪz reɪn ɪn ðə ˈmuːnlaɪt, ənd ˈɡæləpt əˈweɪ tə ðə wɛst./

Grade 9: "Do not go gentle into that good night" by Dylan Thomas

Do not go gentle into that good night,

/duː nɒt ɡəʊ ˈʤɛntəl ˈɪntuː ðæt ɡʊd naɪt,/

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

/əʊld eɪʤ ʃʊd bɜːn ənd reɪv æt kləʊz əv deɪ;/

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

/reɪʤ, reɪʤ əˈɡɛnst ðə ˈdaɪɪŋ əv ðə laɪt./

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,

/ðəʊ waɪz mɛn æt ðeər ɛnd nəʊ dɑːk ɪz raɪt,/

Because their words had forked no lightning they

/bɪˈkɒz ðeə wɜːdz həd fɔːkt nəʊ ˈlaɪtnɪŋ ðeɪ/

Do not go gentle into that good night.

/duː nɒt ɡəʊ ˈʤɛntəl ˈɪntuː ðæt ɡʊd naɪt./

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright

/ɡʊd mɛn, ðə lɑːst weɪv baɪ, ˈkraɪɪŋ haʊ braɪt/

Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,

/ðeə freɪl diːdz maɪt həv dɑːnst ɪn ə ɡriːn beɪ,/

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

/reɪʤ, reɪʤ əˈɡɛnst ðə ˈdaɪɪŋ əv ðə laɪt./

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,

/waɪld mɛn huː kɔːt ənd sæŋ ðə sʌn ɪn flaɪt,/

And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,

/ənd lɜːn, tuː leɪt, ðeɪ ɡriːvd ɪt ɒn ɪts weɪ,/

Do not go gentle into that good night.

/duː nɒt ɡəʊ ˈʤɛntəl ˈɪntuː ðæt ɡʊd naɪt./

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight

/ɡreɪv mɛn, nɪə dɛθ, huː siː wɪð ˈblaɪndɪŋ saɪt/

Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,

/blaɪnd aɪz kʊd bleɪz laɪk ˈmiːtiəz ənd bi ɡeɪ,/

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

/reɪʤ, reɪʤ əˈɡɛnst ðə ˈdaɪɪŋ əv ðə laɪt./

And you, my father, there on the sad height,

/ənd juː, maɪ ˈfɑːðə, ðeər ɒn ðə sæd haɪt,/

Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.

/kɜːs, blɛs, mi naʊ wɪð jɔː fɪəs tɪəz, aɪ preɪ./

Do not go gentle into that good night.

/duː nɒt ɡəʊ ˈʤɛntəl ˈɪntuː ðæt ɡʊd naɪt./

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

/reɪʤ, reɪʤ əˈɡɛnst ðə ˈdaɪɪŋ əv ðə laɪt./

Grade 10: "Still I Rise" by Maya Angelou

You may write me down in history

/ju meɪ raɪt mi daʊn ɪn ˈhɪstəri/

With your bitter, twisted lies,

/wɪð jʊər ˈbɪtər, ˈtwɪstəd laɪz,/

You may trod me in the very dirt

/ju meɪ trɑd mi ɪn ðə ˈvɛri dɜrt/

But still, like dust, I'll rise.

/bət stɪl, laɪk dʌst, aɪl raɪz./

Does my sassiness upset you?

/dʌz maɪ ˈsæsinəs əpˈsɛt ju?/

Why are you beset with gloom?

/waɪ ɑr ju bəˈsɛt wɪð ɡlum?/

’Cause I walk like I've got oil wells

/kəz aɪ wɔk laɪk aɪv ɡɑt ɔɪl wɛlz/

Pumping in my living room.

/ˈpʌmpɪŋ ɪn maɪ ˈlɪvɪŋ rum./

Just like moons and like suns,

/ʤəst laɪk munz ənd laɪk sʌnz,/

With the certainty of tides,

/wɪð ðə ˈsɜrtənti əv taɪdz,/

Just like hopes springing high,

/ʤəst laɪk hoʊps ˈsprɪŋɪŋ haɪ,/

Still I'll rise.

/stɪl aɪl raɪz./

Did you want to see me broken?

/dɪd ju wɑnt tə si mi ˈbroʊkən?/

Bowed head and lowered eyes?

/baʊd hɛd ənd ˈloʊərd aɪz?/

Shoulders falling down like teardrops,

/ˈʃoʊldərz ˈfɔlɪŋ daʊn laɪk ˈtɪrdrɑps,/

Weakened by my soulful cries?

/ˈwikənd baɪ maɪ ˈsoʊlfəl kraɪz?/

Does my haughtiness offend you?

/dʌz maɪ ˈhɔtinəs əˈfɛnd ju?/

Don't you take it awful hard

/doʊnt ju teɪk ɪt ˈɔfəl hɑrd/

’Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines

/kəz aɪ læf laɪk aɪv ɡɑt ɡoʊld maɪnz/

Diggin’ in my own back yard.

/ˈdɪɡɪn ɪn maɪ oʊn bæk jɑrd./

You may shoot me with your words,

/ju meɪ ʃut mi wɪð jʊər wɜrdz,/

You may cut me with your eyes,

/ju meɪ kʌt mi wɪð jʊər aɪz,/

You may kill me with your hatefulness,

/ju meɪ kɪl mi wɪð jʊər ˈheɪtfəlnəs,/

But still, like air, I’ll rise.

/bət stɪl, laɪk ɛr, aɪl raɪz./

Does my sexiness upset you?

/dʌz maɪ ˈsɛksinəs əpˈsɛt ju?/

Does it come as a surprise

/dʌz ɪt kʌm æz ə sərˈpraɪz/

That I dance like I've got diamonds

/ðæt aɪ dæns laɪk aɪv ɡɑt ˈdaɪməndz/

At the meeting of my thighs?

/æt ðə ˈmitɪŋ əv maɪ θaɪz?/

Out of the huts of history’s shame

/aʊt əv ðə hʌts əv ˈhɪstəriz ʃeɪm/

I rise

/aɪ raɪz/

Up from a past that’s rooted in pain

/ʌp frəm ə pæst ðæts ˈrutəd ɪn peɪn/

I rise

/aɪ raɪz/

I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,

/aɪm ə blæk ˈoʊʃən, ˈlipɪŋ ənd waɪd,/

Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.

/ˈwɛlɪŋ ənd ˈswɛlɪŋ aɪ bɛr ɪn ðə taɪd./

Leaving behind nights of terror and fear

/ˈlivɪŋ bəˈhaɪnd naɪts əv ˈtɛrər ənd fɪr/

I rise

/aɪ raɪz/

Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear

/ˈɪntu ə ˈdeɪbreɪk ðæts ˈwʌndrəsli klɪr/

I rise

/aɪ raɪz/

Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,

/ˈbrɪŋɪŋ ðə ɡɪfts ðæt maɪ ˈænsɛstərz ɡeɪv,/

I am the dream and the hope of the slave.

/aɪ əm ðə drim ənd ðə hoʊp əv ðə sleɪv./

I rise

/aɪ raɪz/

I rise

/aɪ raɪz/

I rise.

/aɪ raɪz./

Grade 11: "Ulysses" by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

It little profits that an idle king,

/ɪt ˈlɪtəl ˈprɒfɪts ðət ən ˈaɪdəl kɪŋ,/

By this still hearth, among these barren crags,

/baɪ ðɪs stɪl hɑːθ, əˈmʌŋ ðiːz ˈbærən kræɡz,/

Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole

/mæʧt wɪð ən ˈeɪʤɪd waɪf, aɪ miːt ənd dəʊl/

Unequal laws unto a savage race,

/ʌnˈiːkwəl lɔːz ˈʌntuː ə ˈsævɪʤ reɪs,/

That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.

/ðət hɔːd, ənd sliːp, ənd fiːd, ənd nəʊ nɒt miː./

I cannot rest from travel: I will drink

/aɪ ˈkænɒt rɛst frəm ˈtrævəl: aɪ wɪl drɪŋk/

Life to the lees: All times I have enjoy'd

/laɪf tə ðə liːz: ɔːl taɪmz aɪ həv ɛnˈʤɔɪd/

Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with those

/ˈɡreɪtli, həv ˈsʌfəd ˈɡreɪtli, bəʊθ wɪð ðəʊz/

That loved me, and alone, on shore, and when

/ðət lʌvd miː, ənd əˈləʊn, ɒn ʃɔː, ənd wɛn/

Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades

/θruː ˈskʌdɪŋ drɪfts ðə ˈreɪni ˈhaɪədiːz/

Vext the dim sea: I am become a name;

/vɛkst ðə dɪm siː: aɪ əm bɪˈkʌm ə neɪm;/

For always roaming with a hungry heart

/fɔːr ˈɔːlweɪz ˈrəʊmɪŋ wɪð ə ˈhʌŋɡri hɑːt/

Much have I seen and known; cities of men

/mʌʧ həv aɪ siːn ənd nəʊn; ˈsɪtiz əv mɛn/

And manners, climates, councils, governments,

/ənd ˈmænəz, ˈklaɪmət_s, ˈkaʊnsəlz, ˈɡʌvənmənts,/

Myself not least, but honour'd of them all;

/maɪˈsɛlf nɒt liːst, bət ˈɒnəd əv ðəm ɔːl;/

And drunk delight of battle with my peers,

/ənd drʌŋk dɪˈlaɪt əv ˈbætəl wɪð maɪ pɪəz,/

Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.

/fɑːr ɒn ðə ˈrɪŋɪŋ pleɪnz əv ˈwɪndi trɔɪ./

I am a part of all that I have met;

/aɪ əm ə pɑːt əv ɔːl ðət aɪ həv mɛt;/

Yet all experience is an arch wherethro'

/jɛt ɔːl ɛksˈpɪəriəns ɪz ən ɑːʧ weəˈθruː/

Gleams that untravell'd world whose margin fades

/ɡliːmz ðæt ʌnˈtrævəld wɜːld huːz ˈmɑːʤɪn feɪdz/

For ever and for ever when I move.

/fɔːr ˈɛvər ənd fɔːr ˈɛvə wɛn aɪ muːv./

How dull it is to pause, to make an end,

/haʊ dʌl ɪt ɪz tə pɔːz, tə meɪk ən ɛnd,/

To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use!

/tə rʌst ʌnˈbɜːnɪʃt, nɒt tə ʃaɪn ɪn juːs!/

As tho' to breathe were life! Life piled on life

/æz ðəʊ tə briːð wɜː laɪf! laɪf paɪld ɒn laɪf/

Were all too little, and of one to me

/wɜːr ɔːl tuː ˈlɪtəl, ənd əv wʌn tə miː/

Little remains: but every hour is saved

/ˈlɪtəl rɪˈmeɪnz: bət ˈɛvri ˈaʊər ɪz seɪvd/

From that eternal silence, something more,

/frəm ðæt iːˈtɜːnəl ˈsaɪləns, ˈsʌmθɪŋ mɔː,/

A bringer of new things; and vile it were

/ə ˈbrɪŋər əv njuː θɪŋz; ənd vaɪl ɪt wɜː/

For some three suns to store and hoard myself,

/fɔː sʌm θriː sʌnz tə stɔːr ənd hɔːd maɪˈsɛlf,/

And this gray spirit yearning in desire

/ənd ðɪs ɡreɪ ˈspɪrɪt ˈjɜːnɪŋ ɪn dɪˈzaɪə/

To follow knowledge like a sinking star,

/tə ˈfɒləʊ ˈnɒlɪʤ laɪk ə ˈsɪŋkɪŋ stɑː,/

Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.

/bɪˈjɒnd ði ˈʌtməʊst baʊnd əv ˈhjuːmən θɔːt./

This is my son, mine own Telemachus,

/ðɪs ɪz maɪ sʌn, maɪn əʊn təˈlɛməkəs,/

To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle,—

/tə huːm aɪ liːv ðə ˈsɛptər ənd ði aɪl,—/

Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil

/wɛl-lʌvd əv miː, dɪˈsɜːnɪŋ tə fʊlˈfɪl/

This labour, by slow prudence to make mild

/ðɪs ˈleɪbə, baɪ sləʊ ˈpruːdəns tə meɪk maɪld/

A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees

/ə ˈrʌɡɪd ˈpiːpəl, ənd θruː sɒft dɪˈɡriːz/

Subdue them to the useful and the good.

/səbˈdjuː ðəm tə ðə ˈjuːsfʊl ənd ðə ɡʊd./

Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere

/məʊst ˈbleɪmləs ɪz hiː, ˈsɛntəd ɪn ðə sfɪə/

Of common duties, decent not to fail

/əv ˈkɒmən ˈdjuːtiːz, ˈdiːsənt nɒt tə feɪl/

In offices of tenderness, and pay

/ɪn ˈɒfɪsɪz əv ˈtɛndənəs, ənd peɪ/

Meet adoration to my household gods,

/miːt ˌædəˈreɪʃən tə maɪ ˈhaʊshəʊld ɡɒdz,/

When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.

/wɛn aɪ əm ɡɒn. hi wɜːks hɪz wɜːk, aɪ maɪn./

There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail:

/ðeə laɪz ðə pɔːt; ðə ˈvɛsəl pʌfs hə seɪl:/

There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners,

/ðeə ɡluːm ðə dɑːk, brɔːd siːz. maɪ ˈmærɪnəz,/

Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me—

/səʊlz ðət həv tɔɪld, ənd rɔːt, ənd θɔːt wɪð miː—/

That ever with a frolic welcome took

/ðæt ˈɛvə wɪð ə ˈfrɒlɪk ˈwɛlkəm tʊk/

The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed

/ðə ˈθʌndər ənd ðə ˈsʌnʃaɪn, ənd əˈpəʊzd/

Free hearts, free foreheads—you and I are old;

/friː hɑːts, friː ˈfɒrɪdz—juː ənd aɪ ər əʊld;/

Old age hath yet his honour and his toil;

/əʊld eɪʤ hæθ jɛt hɪz ˈɒnər ənd hɪz tɔɪl;/

Death closes all: but something ere the end,

/dɛθ ˈkləʊzɪz ɔːl: bət ˈsʌmθɪŋ eər ði ɛnd,/

Some work of noble note, may yet be done,

/sʌm wɜːk əv ˈnəʊbəl nəʊt, meɪ jɛt bi dʌn,/

Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.

/nɒt ʌnbɪˈkʌmɪŋ mɛn ðət strəʊv wɪð ɡɒdz./

The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:

/ðə laɪts bɪˈɡɪn tə ˈtwɪŋkəl frəm ðə rɒks:/

The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep

/ðə lɒŋ deɪ weɪnz: ðə sləʊ muːn klaɪmz: ðə diːp/

Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,

/məʊnz raʊnd wɪð ˈmɛni ˈvɔɪsɪz. kʌm, maɪ frɛndz,/

'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.

/tɪz nɒt tuː leɪt tə siːk ə ˈnjuːə wɜːld./

Push off, and sitting well in order smite

/pʊʃ ɒf, ənd ˈsɪtɪŋ wɛl ɪn ˈɔːdə smaɪt/

The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds

/ðə ˈsaʊndɪŋ ˈfʌrəʊz; fɔː maɪ ˈpɜːpəs həʊldz/

To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths

/tə seɪl bɪˈjɒnd ðə ˈsʌnsɛt, ənd ðə bɑːθs/

Of all the western stars, until I die.

/əv ɔːl ðə ˈwɛstən stɑːz, əntɪl aɪ daɪ./

It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:

/ɪt meɪ bi ðət ðə ɡʌlfs wɪl wɒʃ ʌs daʊn:/

It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,

/ɪt meɪ bi wi ʃəl tʌʧ ðə ˈhæpi aɪlz,/

And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.

/ənd siː ðə ɡreɪt əˈkɪliːz, huːm wi njuː./

Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'

/ðəʊ mʌʧ ɪz ˈteɪkən, mʌʧ əˈbaɪdz; ənd ðəʊ/

We are not now that strength which in old days

/wi ɑː nɒt naʊ ðæt strɛŋθ wɪʧ ɪn əʊld deɪz/

Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;

/muːvd ɜːθ ənd ˈhɛvən, ðæt wɪʧ wi ɑː, wi ɑː;/

One equal temper of heroic hearts,

/wʌn ˈiːkwəl ˈtɛmpər əv hɪˈrəʊɪk hɑːts,/

Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will

/meɪd wiːk baɪ taɪm ənd feɪt, bət strɒŋ ɪn wɪl/

To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

/tə straɪv, tə siːk, tə faɪnd, ənd nɒt tə jiːld./

Grade 12: "Ode on a Grecian Urn" by John Keats

I.

Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness,

/ðaʊ stɪl ʌnˈrævɪʃt braɪd əv ˈkwaɪətnəs,/

Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,

/ðaʊ ˈfɒstə-ʧaɪld əv ˈsaɪləns ənd sləʊ taɪm,/

Sylvan historian, who canst thus express

/ˈsɪlvən hɪsˈtɔːriən, huː kænst ðʌs ɪksˈprɛs/

A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:

/ə ˈflaʊəri teɪl mɔː ˈswiːtli ðən aʊə raɪm:/

What leaf-fring'd legend haunts about thy shape

/wɒt liːf-frɪnʤd ˈlɛʤənd hɔːnts əˈbaʊt ðaɪ ʃeɪp/

Of deities or mortals, or of both,

/əv ˈdeɪɪtiːz ɔː ˈmɔːtəlz, ɔːr əv bəʊθ,/

In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?

/ɪn ˈtɛmpi ɔː ðə deɪlz əv ˈɑːkədi?/

What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?

/wɒt mɛn ɔː ɡɒdz ɑː ðiːz? wɒt ˈmeɪdənz ləʊθ?/

What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?

/wɒt mæd pəˈsjuːt? wɒt ˈstrʌɡəl tuː ɛsˈkeɪp?/

What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?

/wɒt paɪps ənd ˈtɪmbrəlz? wɒt waɪld ˈɛkstəsi?/

II.

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard

/hɜːd ˈmɛlədiːz ɑː swiːt, bət ðəʊz ʌnˈhɜːd/

Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;

/ɑː ˈswiːtə; ˈðeəfɔː, ji sɒft paɪps, pleɪ ɒn;/

Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,

/nɒt tə ðə ˈsɛnʃuəl ɪə, bət, mɔːr ɛnˈdɪəd,/

Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:

/paɪp tə ðə ˈspɪrɪt ˈdɪtiːz əv nəʊ təʊn:/

Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave

/feə juːθ, bɪˈniːθ ðə triːz, ðaʊ kænst nɒt liːv/

Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;

/ðaɪ sɒŋ, nɔːr ˈɛvə kæn ðəʊz triːz bi beə;/

Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,

/bəʊld ˈlʌvə, ˈnɛvə, ˈnɛvə kænst ðaʊ kɪs,/

Though winning near the goal yet, do not grieve;

/ðəʊ ˈwɪnɪŋ nɪə ðə ɡəʊl jɛt, duː nɒt ɡriːv;/

She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,

/ʃi ˈkænɒt feɪd, ðəʊ ðaʊ hæst nɒt ðaɪ blɪs,/

For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!

/fɔːr ˈɛvə wɪlt ðaʊ lʌv, ənd ʃi bi feə!/