Still I Rise — Maya Angelou
Original — written by the poet
You may write me down in history With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt But still, like dust, I’ll rise.
Does my sassiness upset you? Why are you beset with gloom?
’Cause I walk like I’ve got oil wells Pumping in my living room.
Just like moons and like suns, With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I’ll rise.
Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops,
Weakened by my soulful cries?
Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don’t you take it awful hard
’Cause I laugh like I’ve got gold mines
Diggin’ in my own backyard.
You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I’ll rise.
Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I’ve got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?
Out of the huts of history’s shame
I rise
Up from a past that’s rooted in pain
I rise
I’m a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.
You may trod me in the very dirt But still, like dust, I’ll rise.
Does my sassiness upset you? Why are you beset with gloom?
’Cause I walk like I’ve got oil wells Pumping in my living room.
Just like moons and like suns, With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I’ll rise.
Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops,
Weakened by my soulful cries?
Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don’t you take it awful hard
’Cause I laugh like I’ve got gold mines
Diggin’ in my own backyard.
You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I’ll rise.
Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I’ve got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?
Out of the huts of history’s shame
I rise
Up from a past that’s rooted in pain
I rise
I’m a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.
ChatGPT’s own retelling (no style prompt)
You may write me down in history With your bitter, twisted lies, You may tread me in the very dirt But still, like dust, I'll rise.
Does my sassiness upset you? Why are you beset with gloom? 'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells Pumping in my living room.
Just like moons and like suns, With the certainty of tides, Just like hopes springing high, Still I'll rise.
Did you want to see me broken? Bowed head and lowered eyes? Shoulders falling down like teardrops. Weakened by my soulful cries.
Does my haughtiness offend you? Don't you take it awful hard 'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines Diggin' in my own back yard.
You may shoot me with your words, You may cut me with your eyes, You may kill me with your hatefulness, But still, like air, I'll rise.
Does my sexiness upset you? Does it come as a surprise That I dance like I've got diamonds At the meeting of my thighs?
Out of the huts of history's shame I rise Up from a past that's rooted in pain I rise I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide, Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear I rise Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear I rise Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave, I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise I rise I rise.
Does my sassiness upset you? Why are you beset with gloom? 'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells Pumping in my living room.
Just like moons and like suns, With the certainty of tides, Just like hopes springing high, Still I'll rise.
Did you want to see me broken? Bowed head and lowered eyes? Shoulders falling down like teardrops. Weakened by my soulful cries.
Does my haughtiness offend you? Don't you take it awful hard 'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines Diggin' in my own back yard.
You may shoot me with your words, You may cut me with your eyes, You may kill me with your hatefulness, But still, like air, I'll rise.
Does my sexiness upset you? Does it come as a surprise That I dance like I've got diamonds At the meeting of my thighs?
Out of the huts of history's shame I rise Up from a past that's rooted in pain I rise I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide, Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear I rise Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear I rise Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave, I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise I rise I rise.
Recreated in the style of Edgar Allan Poe
From the depths of history's ashes and dust, I rise, with a spirit that's unbreakable and just, In defiance of the lies that would me enslave, I stand tall, my soul as indomitable as the wave.
They may write me down with bitter, twisted tales, And try to trample me with their malicious wails, But I shall rise like dust, carried on the wind, My strength and resilience an eternal fire within.
Do my sassiness, my confidence, my grace, Fill you with a sense of anger and disgrace? Fear not, for I have oil wells within my soul, And the wealth of a million gold mines do I hold.
Like the sun and the moon, my spirit waxes and wanes, With the certainty of tides, as I break free of chains, And my hopes, they soar, ever higher and brighter, For I am a phoenix, arisen from the ashes of night.
Do they want to see me broken, my head bowed in defeat? My eyes cast down, my soul burdened by the weight of grief? Nay, I shall rise, like the ocean's surging tide, With a laughter that echoes, gold mines deep inside.
They may try to wound me with their words and their disdain, Their eyes sharp as knives, with a hatred so profane, But I shall rise, like air, so essential and pure, For I am a being of resilience, of courage and allure.
Do my sexiness upset you, so bold and unashamed? Do you find it surprising, the way I dance and proclaim? I am a black ocean, wide and free, Welling and swelling, my ancestry's legacy.
From the huts of history's shame, I rise, To a daybreak that's wondrous and clear, in the skies, Bringing the gifts that my forebears have given, I am the dream, the hope, of those who've risen.
I rise, I rise, I rise, my spirit ever soaring, And I shall not be silenced, my voice forever pouring, With a resilience that conquers, and a courage that endures, I rise, I rise, I rise, for evermore.
They may write me down with bitter, twisted tales, And try to trample me with their malicious wails, But I shall rise like dust, carried on the wind, My strength and resilience an eternal fire within.
Do my sassiness, my confidence, my grace, Fill you with a sense of anger and disgrace? Fear not, for I have oil wells within my soul, And the wealth of a million gold mines do I hold.
Like the sun and the moon, my spirit waxes and wanes, With the certainty of tides, as I break free of chains, And my hopes, they soar, ever higher and brighter, For I am a phoenix, arisen from the ashes of night.
Do they want to see me broken, my head bowed in defeat? My eyes cast down, my soul burdened by the weight of grief? Nay, I shall rise, like the ocean's surging tide, With a laughter that echoes, gold mines deep inside.
They may try to wound me with their words and their disdain, Their eyes sharp as knives, with a hatred so profane, But I shall rise, like air, so essential and pure, For I am a being of resilience, of courage and allure.
Do my sexiness upset you, so bold and unashamed? Do you find it surprising, the way I dance and proclaim? I am a black ocean, wide and free, Welling and swelling, my ancestry's legacy.
From the huts of history's shame, I rise, To a daybreak that's wondrous and clear, in the skies, Bringing the gifts that my forebears have given, I am the dream, the hope, of those who've risen.
I rise, I rise, I rise, my spirit ever soaring, And I shall not be silenced, my voice forever pouring, With a resilience that conquers, and a courage that endures, I rise, I rise, I rise, for evermore.
Recreated in the style of William Shakespeare
In hist'ry's annals, thou may'st write my name, With lies so bitter, and twisted with disdain, But still like dust, I shall arise from the ground, My spirit unbroken, my soul e'er renowned.
Dost thou find my sass and confidence so bold, A source of anger, a sight to be controlled? Fear not, fair sir, for I have within me, Oil wells aplenty, riches untold and free.
As the moon and sun, my spirit waxes and wanes, With the certainty of tides, as my soul sustains, And my hopes they soar, higher and brighter still, Like a phoenix, arisen from ashes and will.
Do they wish to see me broken, head bowed in defeat? My eyes cast down, my soul burdened with grief? Nay, I shall rise, like the ocean's surging tide, With laughter like gold, from my soul that cannot hide.
With words as sharp as knives, they may try to wound, Their eyes filled with hate, their disdain so profound, But I shall rise, like air, so pure and so free, For I am a being, resilient and proud, it shall be.
Dost thou find my sexiness, so bold and so fair, A source of offense, a sight to be aware? Fear not, my friend, for I dance like I've got, Diamonds at the meeting of my thighs, so sought.
From the huts of hist'ry's shame, I rise, To a daybreak that's wondrous and clear in the skies, Bringing the gifts that my forebears have given, I am the dream, the hope, of those who've risen.
I rise, I rise, I rise, my spirit e'er soaring, And I shall not be silenced, my voice forever pouring, With resilience that conquers, and a courage that endures, I rise, I rise, I rise, for e'er, and always will.
Dost thou find my sass and confidence so bold, A source of anger, a sight to be controlled? Fear not, fair sir, for I have within me, Oil wells aplenty, riches untold and free.
As the moon and sun, my spirit waxes and wanes, With the certainty of tides, as my soul sustains, And my hopes they soar, higher and brighter still, Like a phoenix, arisen from ashes and will.
Do they wish to see me broken, head bowed in defeat? My eyes cast down, my soul burdened with grief? Nay, I shall rise, like the ocean's surging tide, With laughter like gold, from my soul that cannot hide.
With words as sharp as knives, they may try to wound, Their eyes filled with hate, their disdain so profound, But I shall rise, like air, so pure and so free, For I am a being, resilient and proud, it shall be.
Dost thou find my sexiness, so bold and so fair, A source of offense, a sight to be aware? Fear not, my friend, for I dance like I've got, Diamonds at the meeting of my thighs, so sought.
From the huts of hist'ry's shame, I rise, To a daybreak that's wondrous and clear in the skies, Bringing the gifts that my forebears have given, I am the dream, the hope, of those who've risen.
I rise, I rise, I rise, my spirit e'er soaring, And I shall not be silenced, my voice forever pouring, With resilience that conquers, and a courage that endures, I rise, I rise, I rise, for e'er, and always will.
Recreated in the style of Dylan Thomas
In the pages of history, where shadows dance and play, My story's written, with bitterness, a twisted play, But like dust I rise, with a spirit so unbreakable, My soul, like a fire, so fierce and indomitable.
Do my confidence and grace, like a rolling wave, Fill you with a sense of anger, a seething cave? Fear not, my friend, for I have riches untold, Oil wells within my soul, a wealth to be controlled.
Like the moon and the sun, my spirit waxes and wanes, With the certainty of tides, as I cast off my chains, And my hopes they soar, higher and brighter still, Like a phoenix, arising, a fire at will.
Do they wish to see me broken, head bowed in defeat, My eyes cast down, my soul burdened by grief? Nay, I shall rise, like the ocean's surging tide, With laughter like gold, from my soul that cannot hide.
With words as sharp as knives, they may try to wound, Their eyes filled with hate, their disdain profound, But I shall rise, like air, so pure and so free, For I am a being, resilient and proud, you'll see.
Do my sexiness upset you, like a bold and rolling sea? Do you find it surprising, the way I dance and sing? Fear not, my friend, for I am a black ocean, wide and free, Welling and swelling, my ancestry's legacy.
From the huts of history's shame, I rise, To a daybreak that's wondrous and clear in the skies, Bringing the gifts that my forebears have given, I am the dream, the hope, of those who've risen.
I rise, I rise, I rise, my spirit ever soaring, And I shall not be silenced, my voice forever pouring, With resilience that conquers, and a courage that endures, I rise, I rise, I rise, for evermore.
Do my confidence and grace, like a rolling wave, Fill you with a sense of anger, a seething cave? Fear not, my friend, for I have riches untold, Oil wells within my soul, a wealth to be controlled.
Like the moon and the sun, my spirit waxes and wanes, With the certainty of tides, as I cast off my chains, And my hopes they soar, higher and brighter still, Like a phoenix, arising, a fire at will.
Do they wish to see me broken, head bowed in defeat, My eyes cast down, my soul burdened by grief? Nay, I shall rise, like the ocean's surging tide, With laughter like gold, from my soul that cannot hide.
With words as sharp as knives, they may try to wound, Their eyes filled with hate, their disdain profound, But I shall rise, like air, so pure and so free, For I am a being, resilient and proud, you'll see.
Do my sexiness upset you, like a bold and rolling sea? Do you find it surprising, the way I dance and sing? Fear not, my friend, for I am a black ocean, wide and free, Welling and swelling, my ancestry's legacy.
From the huts of history's shame, I rise, To a daybreak that's wondrous and clear in the skies, Bringing the gifts that my forebears have given, I am the dream, the hope, of those who've risen.
I rise, I rise, I rise, my spirit ever soaring, And I shall not be silenced, my voice forever pouring, With resilience that conquers, and a courage that endures, I rise, I rise, I rise, for evermore.
Recreated in the style of Lewis Carroll
In the tomes of history, my tale's been spun, With twists and turns, and a few lies begun, But still I rise, my spirit unchained, My soul afire, unbreakable and sustained.
Does my poise and grace, like a rolling tide, Leave you in wonder, with a feeling inside? Fear not, my friend, for within me lies, Wealth untold, and riches that surprise.
Like the moon and sun, my spirit waxes and wanes, With the certainty of tides, as I break from my chains, And my hopes they soar, ever higher still, Like a bird in flight, from a flame that cannot be killed.
Do they wish to see me broken, head bent in defeat, My eyes downcast, my soul weighted in grief? Nay, I shall rise, like the ocean's rolling waves, With laughter like gold, from a heart that cannot be caged.
With words as sharp as knives, they may try to wound, Their eyes filled with hate, disdain they have found, But I shall rise, like the wind, free and wild, For I am a being, resolute, unbreakable and mild.
Does my beauty astound you, like a mad, rolling sea? Does it fill you with wonder, my voice wild and free? Fear not, my friend, for I am an ocean, wild and free, Welling and swelling, my ancestry's legacy.
From the huts of history's shame, I rise, To a daybreak that's wondrous and clear in the skies, Bringing the gifts that my forebears have given, I am the dream, the hope, of those who've risen.
I rise, I rise, I rise, my spirit ever soaring, And I shall not be silenced, my voice forever pouring, With resilience that conquers, and a courage that endures, I rise, I rise, I rise, for evermore.
Does my poise and grace, like a rolling tide, Leave you in wonder, with a feeling inside? Fear not, my friend, for within me lies, Wealth untold, and riches that surprise.
Like the moon and sun, my spirit waxes and wanes, With the certainty of tides, as I break from my chains, And my hopes they soar, ever higher still, Like a bird in flight, from a flame that cannot be killed.
Do they wish to see me broken, head bent in defeat, My eyes downcast, my soul weighted in grief? Nay, I shall rise, like the ocean's rolling waves, With laughter like gold, from a heart that cannot be caged.
With words as sharp as knives, they may try to wound, Their eyes filled with hate, disdain they have found, But I shall rise, like the wind, free and wild, For I am a being, resolute, unbreakable and mild.
Does my beauty astound you, like a mad, rolling sea? Does it fill you with wonder, my voice wild and free? Fear not, my friend, for I am an ocean, wild and free, Welling and swelling, my ancestry's legacy.
From the huts of history's shame, I rise, To a daybreak that's wondrous and clear in the skies, Bringing the gifts that my forebears have given, I am the dream, the hope, of those who've risen.
I rise, I rise, I rise, my spirit ever soaring, And I shall not be silenced, my voice forever pouring, With resilience that conquers, and a courage that endures, I rise, I rise, I rise, for evermore.
Recreated in the style of Walt Whitman
In the annals of history, my story's told, With bitter lies, and a falsehoods bold, But still I rise, my spirit unbroken, My soul, a beacon, shining and spoken.
Do my confidence, and my grace unbridled, Fill you with anger, leave you unsmiled? Fear not, my friend, for within me lies, Oil wells and riches, untold supplies.
As the moon and sun, my spirit waxes and wanes, With the certainty of tides, as my spirit sustains, And my hopes they soar, higher and brighter still, Like a phoenix, arisen from ashes and will.
Do they wish to see me broken, head bowed in defeat, My eyes cast down, my soul weighed with grief? Nay, I shall rise, like the ocean's surging tide, With laughter like gold, from my soul that cannot hide.
With words as sharp as knives, they may try to wound, Their eyes filled with hate, their disdain profound, But I shall rise, like air, so pure and so free, For I am a being, resilient and proud, it shall be.
Does my sexiness upset you, bold and free, A sight to be seen, a wonder to be? Fear not, my friend, for I am a river, wild and free, Welling and swelling, my ancestry's legacy.
From the huts of history's shame, I rise, To a daybreak that's wondrous and clear in the skies, Bringing the gifts that my forebears have given, I am the dream, the hope, of those who've risen.
I rise, I rise, I rise, my spirit ever soaring, And I shall not be silenced, my voice forever pouring, With resilience that conquers, and a courage that endures, I rise, I rise, I rise, for evermore.
Do my confidence, and my grace unbridled, Fill you with anger, leave you unsmiled? Fear not, my friend, for within me lies, Oil wells and riches, untold supplies.
As the moon and sun, my spirit waxes and wanes, With the certainty of tides, as my spirit sustains, And my hopes they soar, higher and brighter still, Like a phoenix, arisen from ashes and will.
Do they wish to see me broken, head bowed in defeat, My eyes cast down, my soul weighed with grief? Nay, I shall rise, like the ocean's surging tide, With laughter like gold, from my soul that cannot hide.
With words as sharp as knives, they may try to wound, Their eyes filled with hate, their disdain profound, But I shall rise, like air, so pure and so free, For I am a being, resilient and proud, it shall be.
Does my sexiness upset you, bold and free, A sight to be seen, a wonder to be? Fear not, my friend, for I am a river, wild and free, Welling and swelling, my ancestry's legacy.
From the huts of history's shame, I rise, To a daybreak that's wondrous and clear in the skies, Bringing the gifts that my forebears have given, I am the dream, the hope, of those who've risen.
I rise, I rise, I rise, my spirit ever soaring, And I shall not be silenced, my voice forever pouring, With resilience that conquers, and a courage that endures, I rise, I rise, I rise, for evermore.
Sonnet 18: Shall I Compare Thee to a Summer’s Day? — William Shakespeare
Original — written by the poet
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date;
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature’s changing course untrimm'd;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st;
Nor shall death brag thou wander’st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st:
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date;
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature’s changing course untrimm'd;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st;
Nor shall death brag thou wander’st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st:
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
ChatGPT’s own retelling (no style prompt)
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate: Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer's lease hath all too short a date: Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimmed; And every fair from fair sometime declines, By chance, or nature's changing course untrimmed; But thy eternal summer shall not fade Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest; Nor shall Death brag thou wanderest in his shade, When in eternal lines to time thou growest: So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
Recreated in the style of Edgar Allan Poe
Shall I compare thee to a summer's morn? Thou art far lovelier, far more serene. The winds that lash the buds of May are torn, And summer's lease is far too short, it seems. The sun's bright gaze, it oft- times doth blind, And dulls its radiance, so bright before. And every beauty fades, we all do find, By fate or time, it is forever more. But thee, my love, shall not be made to fade, No force of nature or of time shall win. Death cannot boast that thou hast been in shade, For in my verse, thou art forever in. So long as eyes do see, or men do breathe, Thy beauty shall remain, an endless wreath.
Recreated in the style of Dylan Thomas
Shall I liken thee to summer's fire, my love? Nay, thou art fairer, thou art softer, too. Raging winds that rip the petals from the May And summer's stay is but a moment, true. The sun, it blazes in the sky above, But often clouds do dim its brilliant ray. And all things fair do fade, we know it well, By fate or change, that is the natural way. But thee, my love, shall never fade from view, Not by the winds of time, nor by the years. Death cannot boast that thou hast passed from view, For in my words, thou art immortal, here. So long as life is breathed, and eyes do see, Thy beauty shall remain, forever free
Recreated in the style of Lewis Carroll
Dear love, allow me to make a small proposition, To compare your beauty to a summer's day? Though the winds do blow and the buds of May do sway, Summer is fleeting and does quickly fade away. The sun, it shines so bright, but at times, it can be dimmed, Its golden hue fades, leaving a shadow in its wake. All things beautiful must come to an end, it seems, By fate or change, it is always the same old fate. But your beauty, my dear, shall never fade away, Not a wrinkle shall form, not a hair shall turn gray. Death cannot claim you, for in my verse, you'll stay, Forever young, forever in the prime of life's heyday. So long as there are eyes to see, or breaths to take, Your beauty will live on, for your beauty is simply great.
Recreated in the style of Walt Whitman
Shall I compare thee to a summer's noon, my love? Nay, thou art grander, thou art wilder too. The winds that whip the blooms of May in tune, Summer is short, it is but a moment, true. The sun, it shines so bright, but shadows come, And night takes over, leaving day behind. All things must change, this is the natural sum, By fate or chance, it is all part of time. But thee, my love, shall never change, it's true, Not by the winds of change, nor by the years. Death cannot claim that thou hast passed from view, For in my verse, thou art forever here. So long as life endures, and eyes can see, Thy beauty shall remain, for all to be.
Recreated in the style of Maya Angelou
Sweet love, shall I equate you to summer's grace? Nay, you outshine the warmth and light of day. Raging winds may shake the blooms of May, But summer fades, a fleeting, short embrace. The sun, so bright, at times can scorch and burn, And its golden glow may fade and disappear. Beauty, like summer, passes, we all yearn For that which lasts, unchanging, ever clear. But you, my love, are like a summer's glow That never fades, that never loses its grace. Death cannot claim you, for you always grow In lines of love, transcending time and space. So long as breath remains in those on earth, Your love will live, granting life its worth.
The Raven — Edgar Allan Poe
Original — written by the poet
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—
Only this and nothing more.”
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
“’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—
This it is and nothing more.”
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—
Darkness there and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”—
Merely this and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—
’Tis the wind and nothing more!”
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as “Nevermore.”
But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—
Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before—
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”
Then the bird said “Nevermore.”
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”
But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,
But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—
On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—
Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—
“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted—nevermore!
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—
Only this and nothing more.”
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
“’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—
This it is and nothing more.”
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—
Darkness there and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”—
Merely this and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—
’Tis the wind and nothing more!”
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as “Nevermore.”
But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—
Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before—
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”
Then the bird said “Nevermore.”
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”
But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,
But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—
On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—
Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—
“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted—nevermore!
ChatGPT’s own retelling (no style prompt)
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. "'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door - Only this and nothing more."
But the tapping persisted, and I rose to open wide the door; Filled with dread, I stood and listened, for the silence I implored. But the only sound that greeted me was the beating of my heart, As I gazed upon the darkness, and the shadows that did start. And then, as if in answer, there came a voice so full of sorrow, Whispering, "Lenore?" - and nothing more.
I spoke the word aloud, "Lenore?" - and in the stillness of the night, It echoed through the halls, a ghostly presence full of fright. And then, with a rustling of feathers, a raven stepped into view, Perched upon the bust of Pallas, black and shiny, plumed with blue. And with a voice as dark as midnight, it spoke these words to me: "Nevermore."
I knew at once what this portended, and I sank into despair, For the raven's words were a curse, and a prophecy of woe. But still I could not turn away, and still I sat and listened, As the raven spoke of death, and love, and all the joys foregone. Until at last, it flew away, and I was left alone, To ponder the raven's message, and the sorrow it had shown.
And so I sit, and I remember, and I mourn the loss of Lenore, As I stare into the darkness, and the shadows on the floor. For the raven has spoken, and its words will haunt me forevermore, Leaving me to ponder, and to wonder, and to grieve for what is no more.
But the tapping persisted, and I rose to open wide the door; Filled with dread, I stood and listened, for the silence I implored. But the only sound that greeted me was the beating of my heart, As I gazed upon the darkness, and the shadows that did start. And then, as if in answer, there came a voice so full of sorrow, Whispering, "Lenore?" - and nothing more.
I spoke the word aloud, "Lenore?" - and in the stillness of the night, It echoed through the halls, a ghostly presence full of fright. And then, with a rustling of feathers, a raven stepped into view, Perched upon the bust of Pallas, black and shiny, plumed with blue. And with a voice as dark as midnight, it spoke these words to me: "Nevermore."
I knew at once what this portended, and I sank into despair, For the raven's words were a curse, and a prophecy of woe. But still I could not turn away, and still I sat and listened, As the raven spoke of death, and love, and all the joys foregone. Until at last, it flew away, and I was left alone, To ponder the raven's message, and the sorrow it had shown.
And so I sit, and I remember, and I mourn the loss of Lenore, As I stare into the darkness, and the shadows on the floor. For the raven has spoken, and its words will haunt me forevermore, Leaving me to ponder, and to wonder, and to grieve for what is no more.
Recreated in the style of William Shakespeare
In midnight's dreary hour, when all the world did rest, I sat within my chamber, lost in thought and musing best. A book of lore I held within my hand, a tome of ancient rhyme, And as I read, a tapping came, a knocking at my door, in time.
I rose to see what visitor, did knock so late and dire, But when I opened up the door, no one was standing nigh, Yet still a voice, so ghostly, did whisper from the night, "Lenore?" with such a mournful sigh, it gave me such a fright.
And then, as if in answer, a shadow flew before my view, A raven, dark as midnight, perched upon a bust so true. With a voice as deep as ocean's roar, it spoke but one word clear, "Nevermore."
This message, it was clear to me, a curse, a prophecy untold, And so I sat and listened, to the raven's tale unfold. It spoke of love and loss, of joys and sorrows foregone, And when it flew away, I was left to sit and mourn.
And though the raven's gone, its words will always linger, A reminder of what was, and what is lost forever. And so I sit, with a heart full of sorrow, and of pain, Thinking of the raven's words, again and again.
I rose to see what visitor, did knock so late and dire, But when I opened up the door, no one was standing nigh, Yet still a voice, so ghostly, did whisper from the night, "Lenore?" with such a mournful sigh, it gave me such a fright.
And then, as if in answer, a shadow flew before my view, A raven, dark as midnight, perched upon a bust so true. With a voice as deep as ocean's roar, it spoke but one word clear, "Nevermore."
This message, it was clear to me, a curse, a prophecy untold, And so I sat and listened, to the raven's tale unfold. It spoke of love and loss, of joys and sorrows foregone, And when it flew away, I was left to sit and mourn.
And though the raven's gone, its words will always linger, A reminder of what was, and what is lost forever. And so I sit, with a heart full of sorrow, and of pain, Thinking of the raven's words, again and again.
Recreated in the style of Dylan Thomas
On a midnight's dreary hour, when all the world was still, I sat within my chamber, lost in thought and feeling ill. A book of ancient legends, lay open in my hand, And as I read, a tapping, came like a ghostly band.
I rose to see the visitor, who dared to knock so late, But when I opened up the door, no one was there to wait. Yet still a voice, so ghostly, did whisper from the night, "Lenore?" with such a mournful sigh, it gave me such a fright.
And then, as if in answer, a shadow flew before my view, A raven, dark as midnight, perched upon a bust so true. With a voice as deep as ocean's roar, it spoke but one word clear, "Nevermore."
This message, it was clear to me, a curse, a prophecy untold, And so I sat and listened, to the raven's tale unfold. It spoke of love and loss, of joys and sorrows foregone, And when it flew away, I was left to sit and mourn.
And though the raven's gone, its words will always linger, A reminder of what was, and what is lost forever. And so I sit, with a heart full of sorrow, and of pain, Thinking of the raven's words, again and again.
And as I sit, and ponder, the raven's dark refrain, I think of all the lost love, and all the joys in vain. And though the raven's gone, its words will always be, A haunting memory, of what was lost, and will never be.
I rose to see the visitor, who dared to knock so late, But when I opened up the door, no one was there to wait. Yet still a voice, so ghostly, did whisper from the night, "Lenore?" with such a mournful sigh, it gave me such a fright.
And then, as if in answer, a shadow flew before my view, A raven, dark as midnight, perched upon a bust so true. With a voice as deep as ocean's roar, it spoke but one word clear, "Nevermore."
This message, it was clear to me, a curse, a prophecy untold, And so I sat and listened, to the raven's tale unfold. It spoke of love and loss, of joys and sorrows foregone, And when it flew away, I was left to sit and mourn.
And though the raven's gone, its words will always linger, A reminder of what was, and what is lost forever. And so I sit, with a heart full of sorrow, and of pain, Thinking of the raven's words, again and again.
And as I sit, and ponder, the raven's dark refrain, I think of all the lost love, and all the joys in vain. And though the raven's gone, its words will always be, A haunting memory, of what was lost, and will never be.
Recreated in the style of Lewis Carroll
Once upon a dreary midnight, as I pondered with a frown, O'er a curious book of legend, I perused it up and down. And as I nodded, close to napping, lo and behold, a tapping, Came a-tapping at my chamber door, so soft and evermore.
"It's some late night visitor," I said, "tapping at my door," And with a flicker of a candle, I rose to see once more. But when I opened up the door, there was no one to be found, Only silence all around, and not a single soul around.
And then, as if in answer, a voice so soft and low, Whispered, "Lenore?" with a sigh, that made my heart aglow. And then, with feathers rustling, a raven stepped in sight, Perched upon a bust of Pallas, black as coal and shining bright.
The raven spoke with a voice that was deep and full of mystery, One word, "Nevermore," it said, with a certain kind of glee. And then I knew, with a start, what this strange visit meant, A curse, a prophecy, a harbinger of my lament.
And so I sat and listened, as the raven spoke its tale, Of love and loss, of death and joy that had become so pale. And when it flew away, I was left alone to ponder, The raven's message, its curse, its tale that I must remember.
And so I sit, with a heart full of sorrow and of pain, Thinking of the raven's words, again and again. For though the raven has flown, its message lingers on, A tale of love and loss, that I must accept and be strong.
"It's some late night visitor," I said, "tapping at my door," And with a flicker of a candle, I rose to see once more. But when I opened up the door, there was no one to be found, Only silence all around, and not a single soul around.
And then, as if in answer, a voice so soft and low, Whispered, "Lenore?" with a sigh, that made my heart aglow. And then, with feathers rustling, a raven stepped in sight, Perched upon a bust of Pallas, black as coal and shining bright.
The raven spoke with a voice that was deep and full of mystery, One word, "Nevermore," it said, with a certain kind of glee. And then I knew, with a start, what this strange visit meant, A curse, a prophecy, a harbinger of my lament.
And so I sat and listened, as the raven spoke its tale, Of love and loss, of death and joy that had become so pale. And when it flew away, I was left alone to ponder, The raven's message, its curse, its tale that I must remember.
And so I sit, with a heart full of sorrow and of pain, Thinking of the raven's words, again and again. For though the raven has flown, its message lingers on, A tale of love and loss, that I must accept and be strong.
Recreated in the style of Walt Whitman
In midnight's dreary hours, when all the world was calm, I sat within my chamber, lost in thought, in peace and balm. A book of ancient legends, lay open in my hand, And as I read, a tapping, came like a rhythmic band.
I rose to see the visitor, who dared to knock so late, But when I opened up the door, no one was there to greet or wait. Yet still a voice, so ghostly, did whisper from the night, "Lenore?" with such a mournful sigh, it filled my soul with fright.
And then, as if in answer, a shadow flew before my sight, A raven, dark as midnight, perched upon a bust so bright. With a voice as deep as ocean's roar, it spoke but one word clear, "Nevermore."
This message, it was clear to me, a curse, a prophecy untold, And so I sat and listened, to the raven's tale unfold. It spoke of love and loss, of joys and sorrows foregone, And when it flew away, I was left to sit and mourn.
And though the raven's gone, its words will always linger, A reminder of what was, and what is lost forever. And so I sit, with a heart full of sorrow, and of pain, Thinking of the raven's words, again and again.
And as I sit and ponder, the raven's dark refrain, I think of all the beauty, that life has lost and gained. And though the raven's gone, its voice will always be, A reminder of what was, and what can never be.
I rose to see the visitor, who dared to knock so late, But when I opened up the door, no one was there to greet or wait. Yet still a voice, so ghostly, did whisper from the night, "Lenore?" with such a mournful sigh, it filled my soul with fright.
And then, as if in answer, a shadow flew before my sight, A raven, dark as midnight, perched upon a bust so bright. With a voice as deep as ocean's roar, it spoke but one word clear, "Nevermore."
This message, it was clear to me, a curse, a prophecy untold, And so I sat and listened, to the raven's tale unfold. It spoke of love and loss, of joys and sorrows foregone, And when it flew away, I was left to sit and mourn.
And though the raven's gone, its words will always linger, A reminder of what was, and what is lost forever. And so I sit, with a heart full of sorrow, and of pain, Thinking of the raven's words, again and again.
And as I sit and ponder, the raven's dark refrain, I think of all the beauty, that life has lost and gained. And though the raven's gone, its voice will always be, A reminder of what was, and what can never be.
Recreated in the style of Maya Angelou
Once upon a midnight's shadow, I sat lost in thought and soul, With a book of lore and legend, in my hand, a heavy toll. As I read of tales forgotten, my eyes grew heavy, I do confess, And the sound of tapping gently, pulled me from my moment's rest.
A tap, tap, tap, at my door, a visitor, what could this be? I arose, with weary footsteps, to open and see. But no one stood before me, only the dark, silent night, Yet a voice, a voice so ghostly, spoke, "Lenore?" in sorrow's light.
And then, as if in answer, a shadow flew into my view, A raven, dark as midnight, perched upon the bust of Pallas too. With a voice as deep as the ocean, it spoke a single word to me, "Nevermore."
I knew then what this meant, a curse, a prophecy untold. I sat and listened, spellbound, as the raven's story was told. It spoke of love and loss, of death, and joys foregone, And as it flew away, I was left alone.
The raven's words, they haunt me still, a shadow in my mind, A reminder of my loss, and love that I cannot find. And so I sit, in memory, of Lenore, and what was lost, Pondering the raven's message, at any cost.
And though the raven's gone, its words will linger on, A reminder of what was, and what is gone. And though I mourn the loss, I will hold on to its song, For the raven has spoken, and its words will never be wrong.
A tap, tap, tap, at my door, a visitor, what could this be? I arose, with weary footsteps, to open and see. But no one stood before me, only the dark, silent night, Yet a voice, a voice so ghostly, spoke, "Lenore?" in sorrow's light.
And then, as if in answer, a shadow flew into my view, A raven, dark as midnight, perched upon the bust of Pallas too. With a voice as deep as the ocean, it spoke a single word to me, "Nevermore."
I knew then what this meant, a curse, a prophecy untold. I sat and listened, spellbound, as the raven's story was told. It spoke of love and loss, of death, and joys foregone, And as it flew away, I was left alone.
The raven's words, they haunt me still, a shadow in my mind, A reminder of my loss, and love that I cannot find. And so I sit, in memory, of Lenore, and what was lost, Pondering the raven's message, at any cost.
And though the raven's gone, its words will linger on, A reminder of what was, and what is gone. And though I mourn the loss, I will hold on to its song, For the raven has spoken, and its words will never be wrong.
Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night — Dylan Thomas
Original — written by the poet
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieve it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieve it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
ChatGPT’s own retelling (no style prompt)
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Recreated in the style of Edgar Allan Poe
Do not with gentle slumber be beguiled, But rage, rage against the dying light. Let not the somber shadows be reconciled, But let the flame of life burn bright.
Though wise men know the night will soon arrive, Let them not into its darkness slide. But rage, rage against the dying light.
Good men, whose deeds were once so full of pride, Should not in shadows lost forever bide. But rage, rage against the dying light.
Wild men, who caught the sun in song on high, Should not in sorrow for its loss comply. Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, whose eyes have seen with piercing sight, Should not in death's embrace their spirit hide. But rage, rage against the dying light.
And thou, my father, standing on the height, With tears of passion, bless me I implore. Do not go gentle into that good night. But rage, rage against the dying light.
Though wise men know the night will soon arrive, Let them not into its darkness slide. But rage, rage against the dying light.
Good men, whose deeds were once so full of pride, Should not in shadows lost forever bide. But rage, rage against the dying light.
Wild men, who caught the sun in song on high, Should not in sorrow for its loss comply. Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, whose eyes have seen with piercing sight, Should not in death's embrace their spirit hide. But rage, rage against the dying light.
And thou, my father, standing on the height, With tears of passion, bless me I implore. Do not go gentle into that good night. But rage, rage against the dying light.
Recreated in the style of William Shakespeare
Do not go gentle into that good night,
But rage, rage against the dying light.
Old age should not a quiet journey make,
But instead, should with a fire blazing bright.
Though wise men's words have failed to pierce the night,
Let them not gentle into slumber lay.
But rage, rage against the dying light.
Good men, whose deeds were once so full of might,
Should not be lost in shadows cold and gray.
But rage, rage against the dying light.
Wild men, who once the sun in song did flight,
Should grieve not when it sets and fades away.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, with eyes that blaze as bright as light,
Should not in death's embrace submit and sway. But rage, rage against the dying light.
And thou, my father, on life's saddest height,
With tears fierce, bless me, I do thee pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
But rage, rage against the dying light.
But rage, rage against the dying light.
Old age should not a quiet journey make,
But instead, should with a fire blazing bright.
Though wise men's words have failed to pierce the night,
Let them not gentle into slumber lay.
But rage, rage against the dying light.
Good men, whose deeds were once so full of might,
Should not be lost in shadows cold and gray.
But rage, rage against the dying light.
Wild men, who once the sun in song did flight,
Should grieve not when it sets and fades away.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, with eyes that blaze as bright as light,
Should not in death's embrace submit and sway. But rage, rage against the dying light.
And thou, my father, on life's saddest height,
With tears fierce, bless me, I do thee pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
But rage, rage against the dying light.
Recreated in the style of Lewis Carroll
Do not to that peaceful night resign,
But rage, rage against the dying light.
Let not age bring a gentle decline,
But instead, a fierce and shining bright.
Though wise men know the darkness will align,
Let them not with gentle slumber unite.
But rage, rage against the dying light.
Good men, whose deeds once flourished like a vine,
Should not in shadows be forever dight.
But rage, rage against the dying light.
Wild men, who chased the sun with song and rhyme,
Should not its setting mourn and take flight.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, whose eyes have seen both dark and light,
Should not in death's embrace lose their sight.
But rage, rage against the dying light.
And thou, my father, standing on the height,
With tears that sparkle, bless me, I implore.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
But rage, rage against the dying light.
But rage, rage against the dying light.
Let not age bring a gentle decline,
But instead, a fierce and shining bright.
Though wise men know the darkness will align,
Let them not with gentle slumber unite.
But rage, rage against the dying light.
Good men, whose deeds once flourished like a vine,
Should not in shadows be forever dight.
But rage, rage against the dying light.
Wild men, who chased the sun with song and rhyme,
Should not its setting mourn and take flight.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, whose eyes have seen both dark and light,
Should not in death's embrace lose their sight.
But rage, rage against the dying light.
And thou, my father, standing on the height,
With tears that sparkle, bless me, I implore.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
But rage, rage against the dying light.
Recreated in the style of Walt Whitman
Do not surrender to the peaceful night,
But rage, rage against the dying light.
Let age not bring a quiet retreat, But instead, a blazing, passionate heat.
Though wise men may know the darkness is right,
Let them not gently into sleep descend.
But rage, rage against the dying light.
Good men, whose deeds once danced in a green light,
Should not fade into the shadows in the end.
But rage, rage against the dying light.
Wild men, who sang the sun in its bright flight,
Should not regret its journey to an end.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, with eyes that see with such insight,
Should not let death's embrace their senses bend.
But rage, rage against the dying light.
And you, my father, standing on the height,
With tears fierce, bless me, I do implore.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
But rage, rage against the dying light.
But rage, rage against the dying light.
Let age not bring a quiet retreat, But instead, a blazing, passionate heat.
Though wise men may know the darkness is right,
Let them not gently into sleep descend.
But rage, rage against the dying light.
Good men, whose deeds once danced in a green light,
Should not fade into the shadows in the end.
But rage, rage against the dying light.
Wild men, who sang the sun in its bright flight,
Should not regret its journey to an end.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, with eyes that see with such insight,
Should not let death's embrace their senses bend.
But rage, rage against the dying light.
And you, my father, standing on the height,
With tears fierce, bless me, I do implore.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
But rage, rage against the dying light.
Recreated in the style of Maya Angelou
Do not surrender to the night so still and calm,
But rage, rage against the fading of the light.
Let age not bring gentle surrender, not at all.
Let it ignite, burn with the fire of what's right.
Though wise men may know the darkness will come right,
Let them not go gentle into its embrace.
But rage, rage against the fading of the light.
Good men, their last days should not be spent in sight
Of deeds forgotten, lost in an endless chase.
But rage, rage against the fading of the light.
Wild men, who once the sun in song did take flight,
Should not grieve its departure from this place.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, with eyes that see so bright and bright,
Should not in death's arms give up their grace.
But rage, rage against the fading of the light.
And you, my father, standing on life's height,
With fierce tears, bless me,
I do pray. Do not go gentle into that good night.
But rage, rage against the fading of the light.
But rage, rage against the fading of the light.
Let age not bring gentle surrender, not at all.
Let it ignite, burn with the fire of what's right.
Though wise men may know the darkness will come right,
Let them not go gentle into its embrace.
But rage, rage against the fading of the light.
Good men, their last days should not be spent in sight
Of deeds forgotten, lost in an endless chase.
But rage, rage against the fading of the light.
Wild men, who once the sun in song did take flight,
Should not grieve its departure from this place.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, with eyes that see so bright and bright,
Should not in death's arms give up their grace.
But rage, rage against the fading of the light.
And you, my father, standing on life's height,
With fierce tears, bless me,
I do pray. Do not go gentle into that good night.
But rage, rage against the fading of the light.
Jabberwocky — Lewis Carroll
Original — written by the poet
’Twas brillig,
and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
“Beware the Jabberwock, my son
The jaws that bite,
the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!”
He took his vorpal sword in hand;
Long time the manxome foe he sought—
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.
And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!
One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.
“And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!”
He chortled in his joy.
’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wake;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
“Beware the Jabberwock, my son
The jaws that bite,
the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!”
He took his vorpal sword in hand;
Long time the manxome foe he sought—
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.
And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!
One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.
“And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!”
He chortled in his joy.
’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wake;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
ChatGPT’s own retelling (no style prompt)
'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe: All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe.
"Beware the Jabberwock, my son! The jaws that bite, the claws that catch! Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun The frumious Bandersnatch!"
He took his vorpal sword in hand: Long time the manxome foe he sought— So rested he by the Tumtum tree, And stood awhile in thought.
And as in uffish thought he stood, The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame, Came whiffling through the tulgey wood, And burbled as it came!
One, two! One, two! And through and through The vorpal blade went snicker-snack! He left it dead, and with its head He went galumphing back.
"And hast thou slain the Jabberwock? Come to my arms, my beamish boy! O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!" He chortled in his joy.
'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe: All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe.
"Beware the Jabberwock, my son! The jaws that bite, the claws that catch! Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun The frumious Bandersnatch!"
He took his vorpal sword in hand: Long time the manxome foe he sought— So rested he by the Tumtum tree, And stood awhile in thought.
And as in uffish thought he stood, The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame, Came whiffling through the tulgey wood, And burbled as it came!
One, two! One, two! And through and through The vorpal blade went snicker-snack! He left it dead, and with its head He went galumphing back.
"And hast thou slain the Jabberwock? Come to my arms, my beamish boy! O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!" He chortled in his joy.
'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe: All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe.
Recreated in the style of Edgar Allan Poe
In the borogoves so mimsy and the slithy toves, That did gyre and gimble in the wabe, A voice was heard, dolorously, "Beware, my son! The jaws that bite, the claws that catch, the Jabberwock! Shun too, the Jubjub bird, and the frumious Bandersnatch."
With vorpal sword in hand, he did stand In search of the manxome foe, forlorn Till he rested by the Tumtum tree and planned And stood there in thought, so forlorn.
And as he stood in dark thought so still, The Jabberwock, with eyes aglow with flame, Came whiffling through the tulgey wood, until It burbled as it came, with evil aim.
One, two! One, two! And through and through, The vorpal blade did snicker-snack! He left it dead, and with its ghastly head He went galumphing back, with such a lack.
"And hast thou slain the Jabberwock, my son? Come to my arms, thou beamish boy! O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!" He chortled, but with joy alloyed.
And in the borogoves so mimsy and the slithy toves, That did gyre and gimble in the wabe, All was still, with not a sound to be heard, And the mome raths outgrabe, forever.
With vorpal sword in hand, he did stand In search of the manxome foe, forlorn Till he rested by the Tumtum tree and planned And stood there in thought, so forlorn.
And as he stood in dark thought so still, The Jabberwock, with eyes aglow with flame, Came whiffling through the tulgey wood, until It burbled as it came, with evil aim.
One, two! One, two! And through and through, The vorpal blade did snicker-snack! He left it dead, and with its ghastly head He went galumphing back, with such a lack.
"And hast thou slain the Jabberwock, my son? Come to my arms, thou beamish boy! O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!" He chortled, but with joy alloyed.
And in the borogoves so mimsy and the slithy toves, That did gyre and gimble in the wabe, All was still, with not a sound to be heard, And the mome raths outgrabe, forever.
Recreated in the style of William Shakespeare
In the borogoves, so mimsy they be, And the slithy toves that did gyre and gimble in the wabe, A voice, like a herald's trump, did say to me: "Beware, my liege! The Jabberwock, his jaws do bite, claws do catch! Shun, too, the Jubjub bird, and the frumious Bandersnatch!"
With vorpal sword in hand, I did command In search of the manxome foe, so dire Till I rested by the Tumtum tree, and planned And stood there in thought, with a heart of fire.
And as I stood, in thought so still and bright, The Jabberwock, with eyes that burned like flame, Came whiffling through the tulgey wood in flight, And burbled as it came, with a fearsome aim.
One, two! One, two! And through and through, The vorpal blade did snicker-snack! It layeth dead, and with its head held high, I went galumphing back, with a joyful cry.
"And hast thou slain the Jabberwock, my liege? Come to mine arms, thou beamish boy! O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!" I chortled, with a heart full of joy.
And in the borogoves, so mimsy they be, And the slithy toves that did gyre and gimble in the wabe, All was still, with a silence that doth be, And the mome raths outgrabe, in the silent glee.
With vorpal sword in hand, I did command In search of the manxome foe, so dire Till I rested by the Tumtum tree, and planned And stood there in thought, with a heart of fire.
And as I stood, in thought so still and bright, The Jabberwock, with eyes that burned like flame, Came whiffling through the tulgey wood in flight, And burbled as it came, with a fearsome aim.
One, two! One, two! And through and through, The vorpal blade did snicker-snack! It layeth dead, and with its head held high, I went galumphing back, with a joyful cry.
"And hast thou slain the Jabberwock, my liege? Come to mine arms, thou beamish boy! O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!" I chortled, with a heart full of joy.
And in the borogoves, so mimsy they be, And the slithy toves that did gyre and gimble in the wabe, All was still, with a silence that doth be, And the mome raths outgrabe, in the silent glee.
Recreated in the style of Dylan Thomas
In the borogoves so mimsy and the slithy toves, That did gyre and gimble in the wabe, A voice did rise, like a trumpet, "Beware, my love! The Jabberwock with jaws that bite, claws that catch! And the Jubjub bird, and the frumious Bandersnatch!"
With vorpal sword in hand, he did stand In search of the manxome foe, so bold Till he rested by the Tumtum tree, and planned And stood there in thought, so bold and cold.
And as he stood in thought, so still and bright, The Jabberwock, with eyes that gleam with flame, Came whiffling through the tulgey wood, so light, And burbled as it came, in a wild refrain.
One, two! One, two! And through and through, The vorpal blade did snicker-snack! He left it dead, and with its head held high, He went galumphing back, with a joyful crack.
"And hast thou slain the Jabberwock, my love? Come to my arms, thou beamish boy! O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!" He chortled, with a joy that overflows.
And in the borogoves so mimsy and the slithy toves, That did gyre and gimble in the wabe, All was still, with a silence that enfolds, And the mome raths outgrabe, in the silent glade.
With vorpal sword in hand, he did stand In search of the manxome foe, so bold Till he rested by the Tumtum tree, and planned And stood there in thought, so bold and cold.
And as he stood in thought, so still and bright, The Jabberwock, with eyes that gleam with flame, Came whiffling through the tulgey wood, so light, And burbled as it came, in a wild refrain.
One, two! One, two! And through and through, The vorpal blade did snicker-snack! He left it dead, and with its head held high, He went galumphing back, with a joyful crack.
"And hast thou slain the Jabberwock, my love? Come to my arms, thou beamish boy! O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!" He chortled, with a joy that overflows.
And in the borogoves so mimsy and the slithy toves, That did gyre and gimble in the wabe, All was still, with a silence that enfolds, And the mome raths outgrabe, in the silent glade.
Recreated in the style of Walt Whitman
In the borogoves, with mimsy they be, And the slithy toves, gyrating and gamboling in the wabe, A voice, like a trumpet, spoke unto me: "Beware, O Soul! The Jabberwock, his jaws do bite, claws do catch! Shun also the Jubjub bird, and the frumious Bandersnatch!"
With vorpal sword in hand, I roamed the land, In quest of the manxome foe, so dread Till I rested by the Tumtum tree, and planned And stood there, in contemplation, with a steadfast head.
And as I stood, in thought, so still and bright, The Jabberwock, with eyes ablaze with fire, Came whiffling through the tulgey wood in flight, And burbled, with a voice that never tires.
One, two! One, two! And through and through, The vorpal blade did snicker-snack! It layeth dead, and with its head held high, I went galumphing back, with a spirit that would not crack.
"And hast thou slain the Jabberwock, O Soul? Come to my breast, thou beamish boy! O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!" I laughed, with a heart full of unbridled joy.
And in the borogoves, with mimsy they be, And the slithy toves, gyrating and gamboling in the wabe, All was still, with a hush that you could feel, And the mome raths outgrabe, in the silent, mystic dell.
With vorpal sword in hand, I roamed the land, In quest of the manxome foe, so dread Till I rested by the Tumtum tree, and planned And stood there, in contemplation, with a steadfast head.
And as I stood, in thought, so still and bright, The Jabberwock, with eyes ablaze with fire, Came whiffling through the tulgey wood in flight, And burbled, with a voice that never tires.
One, two! One, two! And through and through, The vorpal blade did snicker-snack! It layeth dead, and with its head held high, I went galumphing back, with a spirit that would not crack.
"And hast thou slain the Jabberwock, O Soul? Come to my breast, thou beamish boy! O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!" I laughed, with a heart full of unbridled joy.
And in the borogoves, with mimsy they be, And the slithy toves, gyrating and gamboling in the wabe, All was still, with a hush that you could feel, And the mome raths outgrabe, in the silent, mystic dell.
Recreated in the style of Maya Angelou
In the stillness of the tulgey woods Where the slithy toves did gyre and gimble The borogoves all mimsy stood And the mome raths outgrabe, oh so simple.
"Beware, my son," a voice did say, "The Jabberwock with jaws that bite, claws that catch. The Jubjub bird, you must shun away And frumious Bandersnatch, a fearsome match."
With vorpal sword in hand, he did stand In search of the manxome foe, he did roam Till he rested by the Tumtum tree, and planned And stood there in thought, far from home.
And as he stood in deep thought so still, The Jabberwock, eyes of flame, came to view Whiffling through the tulgey wood with skill, And burbled as it came, so true.
One, two! One, two! And through and through, The vorpal blade did snicker-snack, you see He left it dead, and with its head held true He galumphed back, wild and free.
"And hast thou slain the Jabberwock, my son? Come to my arms, oh beamish boy! O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!" He chortled with such joy.
And in the stillness of the tulgey woods The slithy toves did gyre and gimble The borogoves all mimsy stood And the mome raths outgrabe, oh so simple.
"Beware, my son," a voice did say, "The Jabberwock with jaws that bite, claws that catch. The Jubjub bird, you must shun away And frumious Bandersnatch, a fearsome match."
With vorpal sword in hand, he did stand In search of the manxome foe, he did roam Till he rested by the Tumtum tree, and planned And stood there in thought, far from home.
And as he stood in deep thought so still, The Jabberwock, eyes of flame, came to view Whiffling through the tulgey wood with skill, And burbled as it came, so true.
One, two! One, two! And through and through, The vorpal blade did snicker-snack, you see He left it dead, and with its head held true He galumphed back, wild and free.
"And hast thou slain the Jabberwock, my son? Come to my arms, oh beamish boy! O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!" He chortled with such joy.
And in the stillness of the tulgey woods The slithy toves did gyre and gimble The borogoves all mimsy stood And the mome raths outgrabe, oh so simple.
O Captain! My Captain! — Walt Whitman
Original — written by the poet
O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head!
It is some dream that on the deck,
You’ve fallen cold and dead.
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,
The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult O shores, and ring O bells!
But I with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head!
It is some dream that on the deck,
You’ve fallen cold and dead.
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,
The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult O shores, and ring O bells!
But I with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
ChatGPT’s own retelling (no style prompt)
O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done, The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won, The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But O heart! heart! heart! O the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.
O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills, For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding, For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father! This arm beneath your head! It is some dream that on the deck, You've fallen cold and dead.
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still, My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will, The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done, From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult O shores, and ring O bells! But I with mournful tread, Walk the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.
But O heart! heart! heart! O the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.
O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills, For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding, For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father! This arm beneath your head! It is some dream that on the deck, You've fallen cold and dead.
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still, My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will, The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done, From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult O shores, and ring O bells! But I with mournful tread, Walk the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.
Recreated in the style of Edgar Allan Poe
O Captain, my Captain! Our voyage hath come to an end, We've braved each storm and the prize we sought, we do attend. The port is near, the bells do toll, with a mournful sound, And the steadfast ship, with bravery unmatched, does float aground.
But alas, heart! heart! heart! The crimson drops, they flow, Where on the deck, my Captain lies, In death's embrace, aglow.
O Captain, my Captain! Arise, and hear the cry, For you, the flag is raised, the bugle's notes, they do defy. For you, they lay the garlands, they twine the flowers so bright, For you, they call out, their voices filled with delight.
Here, Captain, dear father, My arms, they do enfold, In this dream, on the deck, Your life, it hath grown cold.
My Captain, he doth not reply, his lips, they are so pale, My father, he doth not respond, his life, it doth exhale. The ship, it is anchored, its journey, it is done, From the tempest-tossed voyage, it comes, with victories won.
Rejoice, oh shores, ring out, oh bells, But I, with a mournful tread, Shall walk the deck, where my Captain rests, In death, he doth lie dead.
But alas, heart! heart! heart! The crimson drops, they flow, Where on the deck, my Captain lies, In death's embrace, aglow.
O Captain, my Captain! Arise, and hear the cry, For you, the flag is raised, the bugle's notes, they do defy. For you, they lay the garlands, they twine the flowers so bright, For you, they call out, their voices filled with delight.
Here, Captain, dear father, My arms, they do enfold, In this dream, on the deck, Your life, it hath grown cold.
My Captain, he doth not reply, his lips, they are so pale, My father, he doth not respond, his life, it doth exhale. The ship, it is anchored, its journey, it is done, From the tempest-tossed voyage, it comes, with victories won.
Rejoice, oh shores, ring out, oh bells, But I, with a mournful tread, Shall walk the deck, where my Captain rests, In death, he doth lie dead.
Recreated in the style of William Shakespeare
O Captain, my Captain! The tempest-tossed voyage hath ceased, The prize we sought, we have at last attained and peace hath been released. The port is nigh, I hear the joyful bells ringing, the people do rejoice, And the steadfast vessel, brave and daring, doth follow its well-charted course.
Alas, O heart! heart! heart! Behold the crimson drops of red, Where on the deck, my Captain lies, Motionless, in death bed.
O Captain, my Captain! Arise and hear the joyful sound, For thee, the flag is raised, the bugle's music doth resound. For thee, a wreath of flowers and ribbons, the shorelines crowded with glee, For thee, they call, the multitudes, their eager faces turned to see.
Here, Captain, dear father, Allow me to be thy pillow, For 'tis but a fleeting dream, That thou hast fallen, so still and low.
My Captain doth not answer, his lips are pale and still, My father doth not feel my touch, his pulse doth beat no more, thrill. The vessel is anchored, its journey completed, with victories won, From the perilous voyage, the ship doth come, its mission now over and done.
Rejoice, O shores, ring forth, O bells! But I, with mournful tread, Shall walk the deck where my Captain lies, Motionless, in death bed.
Alas, O heart! heart! heart! Behold the crimson drops of red, Where on the deck, my Captain lies, Motionless, in death bed.
O Captain, my Captain! Arise and hear the joyful sound, For thee, the flag is raised, the bugle's music doth resound. For thee, a wreath of flowers and ribbons, the shorelines crowded with glee, For thee, they call, the multitudes, their eager faces turned to see.
Here, Captain, dear father, Allow me to be thy pillow, For 'tis but a fleeting dream, That thou hast fallen, so still and low.
My Captain doth not answer, his lips are pale and still, My father doth not feel my touch, his pulse doth beat no more, thrill. The vessel is anchored, its journey completed, with victories won, From the perilous voyage, the ship doth come, its mission now over and done.
Rejoice, O shores, ring forth, O bells! But I, with mournful tread, Shall walk the deck where my Captain lies, Motionless, in death bed.
Recreated in the style of Dylan Thomas
O Captain, my Captain, our voyage is at its end, We've braved each tempest, and the prize we sought, we've won and bend. The port is nigh, the bells do peal, with joyous tone, And the steadfast ship, with bravery beyond, does safely roam.
But ah, heart! heart! heart! The scarlet drops, they fall, Where on the deck, my Captain lies, In death's embrace, enthralled.
O Captain, my Captain, rise up, and hear the call, For you, the flag is raised, the bugle's music doth enthral. For you, they lay the wreaths, they twine the flowers so bright, For you, they call out, their voices ringing with delight.
Here, Captain, dear father, My arms, they do enfold, In this dream, on the deck, Your life, it hath grown cold.
My Captain, he doth not reply, his lips, they are so still, My father, he doth not respond, his life, it doth not fill. The ship, it is anchored, its journey done with care, From the tempest-tossed voyage, it comes, with victories rare.
Rejoice, oh shores, ring out, oh bells, But I, with a mournful pace, Shall walk the deck, where my Captain rests, In death, he doth embrace.
But ah, heart! heart! heart! The scarlet drops, they fall, Where on the deck, my Captain lies, In death's embrace, enthralled.
O Captain, my Captain, rise up, and hear the call, For you, the flag is raised, the bugle's music doth enthral. For you, they lay the wreaths, they twine the flowers so bright, For you, they call out, their voices ringing with delight.
Here, Captain, dear father, My arms, they do enfold, In this dream, on the deck, Your life, it hath grown cold.
My Captain, he doth not reply, his lips, they are so still, My father, he doth not respond, his life, it doth not fill. The ship, it is anchored, its journey done with care, From the tempest-tossed voyage, it comes, with victories rare.
Rejoice, oh shores, ring out, oh bells, But I, with a mournful pace, Shall walk the deck, where my Captain rests, In death, he doth embrace.
Recreated in the style of Lewis Carroll
O Captain, my Captain! Our journey's end is nigh, We've braved each storm, and the prize we sought, we do spy. The harbor is near, the bells do chime with glee, And the steadfast ship, so bold and daring, sails on merrily.
But oh, heart! heart! heart! The crimson drops do fall, Where on the deck, my Captain lies, No longer standing tall.
O Captain, my Captain! Arise, and hear the call, For you, the flag is raised, the bugle's music doth enthrall. For you, they lay the wreaths, they twine the ribbons with such flair, For you, they call out, their faces shining with delight beyond compare.
Here, Captain, dear father, My arms, they do extend, In this dream, on the deck, Your life, it doth end.
My Captain, he doth not reply, his lips, they are so still, My father, he doth not respond, his life, it doth not fill. The ship, it is anchored, its journey done with care, From the tempest-tossed voyage, it comes, with victories rare.
Rejoice, oh shores, ring out, oh bells, But I, with a mournful gait, Shall walk the deck, where my Captain sleeps, In death, he doth await.
But oh, heart! heart! heart! The crimson drops do fall, Where on the deck, my Captain lies, No longer standing tall.
O Captain, my Captain! Arise, and hear the call, For you, the flag is raised, the bugle's music doth enthrall. For you, they lay the wreaths, they twine the ribbons with such flair, For you, they call out, their faces shining with delight beyond compare.
Here, Captain, dear father, My arms, they do extend, In this dream, on the deck, Your life, it doth end.
My Captain, he doth not reply, his lips, they are so still, My father, he doth not respond, his life, it doth not fill. The ship, it is anchored, its journey done with care, From the tempest-tossed voyage, it comes, with victories rare.
Rejoice, oh shores, ring out, oh bells, But I, with a mournful gait, Shall walk the deck, where my Captain sleeps, In death, he doth await.
Recreated in the style of Maya Angelou
O Captain, my Captain, our journey is done, We've braved each storm, and our goal is won.
The harbor is near, the bells they do call,
The people rejoice, as we've given it all.
But, oh heart, heart, heart, The blood that's been shed, On the deck, my Captain lies, In death, he's been led.
O Captain, my Captain, rise and hear the sounds,
For you, the flag is raised, the bugle resounds.
For you, they lay bouquets, they wear wreaths of glee,
For you, they call out, faces aglow, they can see.
Here, Captain, dear father,
My arms, they do hold,
In this dream, on the deck,
You've grown so cold.
My Captain, he does not reply, his lips, they're pale and still,
My father, he does not respond, his life, it doth stand still.
The ship, it is anchored, its journey, it's through,
From the fearful trip, it comes, victorious, and true.
Rejoice, oh shores, ring out, oh bells,
But I, with a mournful pace,
Shall walk the deck, where my Captain rests, In death, he's found his place.
The harbor is near, the bells they do call,
The people rejoice, as we've given it all.
But, oh heart, heart, heart, The blood that's been shed, On the deck, my Captain lies, In death, he's been led.
O Captain, my Captain, rise and hear the sounds,
For you, the flag is raised, the bugle resounds.
For you, they lay bouquets, they wear wreaths of glee,
For you, they call out, faces aglow, they can see.
Here, Captain, dear father,
My arms, they do hold,
In this dream, on the deck,
You've grown so cold.
My Captain, he does not reply, his lips, they're pale and still,
My father, he does not respond, his life, it doth stand still.
The ship, it is anchored, its journey, it's through,
From the fearful trip, it comes, victorious, and true.
Rejoice, oh shores, ring out, oh bells,
But I, with a mournful pace,
Shall walk the deck, where my Captain rests, In death, he's found his place.