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Re: Poet's Corner..Post Your Favorites

#20392 3 years, 5 months ago
I think Ken Kesey was the reincarnation of Swift. Has anyone read A Modest Proposal, the essay where he suggests that the solution to the famine in Ireland is to have the Irish eat their young? It's timelessly biting. The man was a Prankster long before the concept (as we know it) was ever envisioned.

On a more serious note, between my dad, my wife's nephew and a good friend in his mid 80s, I've spent quite a bit of time recently in hospices and nursing homes. The nurses are absolute titans, where that daily courage comes from I can't imagine. One thing that has occurred to me, however, is that these places have a certain spiritual beauty. If God is most present anywhere in our lives, it stands to reason that it would be where people wait to begin that greatest journey. I pray that you can feel that infinite love because I believe a hospice is filled with it.
"Got any nails?"
"Got any flies?"
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Re: Poet's Corner..Post Your Favorites

#20393 3 years, 5 months ago
Because I could not stop for Death (712)
by Emily Dickinson

Because I could not stop for Death –
He kindly stopped for me –
The Carriage held but just Ourselves –
And Immortality.

We slowly drove – He knew no haste
And I had put away
My labor and my leisure too,
For His Civility –

We passed the School, where Children strove
At Recess – in the Ring –
We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain –
We passed the Setting Sun –

Or rather – He passed us –
The Dews drew quivering and chill –
For only Gossamer, my Gown –
My Tippet – only Tulle –

We paused before a House that seemed
A Swelling of the Ground –
The Roof was scarcely visible –
The Cornice – in the Ground –

Since then – 'tis Centuries – and yet
Feels shorter than the Day
I first surmised the Horses' Heads
Were toward Eternity –
"Got any nails?"
"Got any flies?"
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Re: Poet's Corner..Post Your Favorites

#20502 3 years, 5 months ago
Equinox, didn't say you wrote some poetry back in school that was considered renegade? I'd like to see some some day if you are ever up for sharing. I like the Kesey story about the Irish.

Passing Time

Your skin like dawn
Mine like musk

One paints the beginning
of a certain end.

The other, the end of a
sure beginning.

Maya Angelou
"if you don't like the news go out and make some of your own"
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Re: Poet's Corner..Post Your Favorites

#20601 3 years, 5 months ago
by William Blake

He who binds to himself a joy
Does the winged life destroy
He who kisses the joy as it flies
Lives in eternity's sunrise
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Re: Poet's Corner..Post Your Favorites

#20627 3 years, 5 months ago
"I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud"
by William Wordsworth

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed---and gazed---but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
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#20837 3 years, 5 months ago
One Flower
by Jack Kerouac

One flower
on the cliffside
Nodding at the canyon
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Re: Poet's Corner..Post Your Favorites

#20858 3 years, 5 months ago
Thanks for asking about my poetry. I wouldn't necessarily call it renegade, just not in fashion. It's probably one of the reasons I like Emily Dickinson so much. In her lifetime she was completely ignored by the literary establishment but now we basically ignore that establishment. Not that I'm anywhere near her level, of course.

I have no compunction about sharing my poetry. I just have to find it. Somewhere in this house are several boxes filled with poems I've written from my teens into my thirties. After that I turned my attention to journalism and then copy writing because that's where I could actually make some money and still get that writer's buzz. I'd actually like to take a look through those papers. This thread has got me thinking about them again.

Great Angelou poem.

Also nice to see a Kerouac poem. Of course the argument could be made that everything he wrote was poetry.
"Got any nails?"
"Got any flies?"
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#20859 3 years, 5 months ago
My favorite Wordsworth poem.


FIVE years have past; five summers, with the length
Of five long winters! and again I hear
These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs
With a soft inland murmur.--Once again
Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs,
That on a wild secluded scene impress
Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect
The landscape with the quiet of the sky.
The day is come when I again repose
Here, under this dark sycamore, and view
These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts,
Which at this season, with their unripe fruits,
Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves
'Mid groves and copses. Once again I see
These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines
Of sportive wood run wild: these pastoral farms,
Green to the very door; and wreaths of smoke
Sent up, in silence, from among the trees!
With some uncertain notice, as might seem
Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods,
Or of some Hermit's cave, where by his fire
The Hermit sits alone.
These beauteous forms,
Through a long absence, have not been to me
As is a landscape to a blind man's eye:
But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din
Of towns and cities, I have owed to them
In hours of weariness, sensations sweet,
Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart;
And passing even into my purer mind,
With tranquil restoration:--feelings too
Of unremembered pleasure: such, perhaps,
As have no slight or trivial influence
On that best portion of a good man's life,
His little, nameless, unremembered, acts
Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust,
To them I may have owed another gift,
Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood,
In which the burthen of the mystery,
In which the heavy and the weary weight
Of all this unintelligible world,
Is lightened:--that serene and blessed mood,
In which the affections gently lead us on,--
Until, the breath of this corporeal frame
And even the motion of our human blood
Almost suspended, we are laid asleep
In body, and become a living soul:
While with an eye made quiet by the power
Of harmony, and the deep power of joy,
We see into the life of things.
If this
Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oft--
In darkness and amid the many shapes
Of joyless daylight; when the fretful stir
Unprofitable, and the fever of the world,
Have hung upon the beatings of my heart--
How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee,
O sylvan Wye! thou wanderer thro' the woods,
How often has my spirit turned to thee!
And now, with gleams of half-extinguished thought,
With many recognitions dim and faint,
And somewhat of a sad perplexity,
The picture of the mind revives again:
While here I stand, not only with the sense
Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts
That in this moment there is life and food
For future years. And so I dare to hope,
Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when first
I came among these hills; when like a roe
I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides
Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams,
Wherever nature led: more like a man
Flying from something that he dreads, than one
Who sought the thing he loved. For nature then
(The coarser pleasures of my boyish days,
And their glad animal movements all gone by)
To me was all in all.--I cannot paint
What then I was. The sounding cataract
Haunted me like a passion: the tall rock,
The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,
Their colours and their forms, were then to me
An appetite; a feeling and a love,
That had no need of a remoter charm,
By thought supplied, nor any interest
Unborrowed from the eye.--That time is past,
And all its aching joys are now no more,
And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this
Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur, other gifts
Have followed; for such loss, I would believe,
Abundant recompence. For I have learned
To look on nature, not as in the hour
Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes
The still, sad music of humanity,
Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power
To chasten and subdue. And I have felt
A presence that disturbs me with the joy
Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime
Of something far more deeply interfused,
Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,
And the round ocean and the living air,
And the blue sky, and in the mind of man;
A motion and a spirit, that impels
All thinking things, all objects of all thought,
And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still
A lover of the meadows and the woods,
And mountains; and of all that we behold
From this green earth; of all the mighty world
Of eye, and ear,--both what they half create,
And what perceive; well pleased to recognise
In nature and the language of the sense,
The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse,
The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul
Of all my moral being.
Nor perchance,
If I were not thus taught, should I the more
Suffer my genial spirits to decay:
For thou art with me here upon the banks
Of this fair river; thou my dearest Friend,
My dear, dear Friend; and in thy voice I catch
The language of my former heart, and read
My former pleasures in the shooting lights
Of thy wild eyes. Oh! yet a little while
May I behold in thee what I was once,
My dear, dear Sister! and this prayer I make,
Knowing that Nature never did betray
The heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege,
Through all the years of this our life, to lead
From joy to joy: for she can so inform
The mind that is within us, so impress
With quietness and beauty, and so feed
With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues,
Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men,
Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all
The dreary intercourse of daily life,
Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb
Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold
Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon
Shine on thee in thy solitary walk;
And let the misty mountain-winds be free
To blow against thee: and, in after years,
When these wild ecstasies shall be matured
Into a sober pleasure; when thy mind
Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms,
Thy memory be as a dwelling-place
For all sweet sounds and harmonies; oh! then,
If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief,
Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts
Of tender joy wilt thou remember me,
And these my exhortations! Nor, perchance--
If I should be where I no more can hear
Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams
Of past existence--wilt thou then forget
That on the banks of this delightful stream
We stood together; and that I, so long
A worshipper of Nature, hither came
Unwearied in that service: rather say
With warmer love--oh! with far deeper zeal
Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget,
That after many wanderings, many years
Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs,
And this green pastoral landscape, were to me
More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake!
"Got any nails?"
"Got any flies?"
Last Edit: 3 years, 5 months ago by Equinox.
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#20906 3 years, 5 months ago
Wordsworth was obviously born to be a poet. Good god I love his musings. Thank you.

Dig away, Equinox, I'd like to see it.
"if you don't like the news go out and make some of your own"
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#21043 3 years, 5 months ago
P R A I S E O F H E M P - S E E D :

The Voyage of Mr. Roger Bird and the Writer hereof, in a
Boat of browne-Paper, from London to Quinborough
in Kent.

Sweet sacred Muses, my inuention raise
Vnto the life, to write great Hempseeds praise.
This grain growes to a stalk, whose coat or skin
Good industry doth hatchell, twist, and spin,
And for mans best aduantage and auailes
It makes clothes, cordage, halters, ropes and sailes.

From this small Atome, mighty matters springs,
It is the Art of nauigations wings ;
It spreads aloft, the lofty skie it scales,
Flies o're the great Leuiathan and Whales,
Diues to the boundlesse bottome of the deepe,
Where Neptune doth mongst dreadful monsters keep.

From Pole to pole, it cuts both Seas and Skyes,
From th' orient to the occident it flyes.
Kings that are sundred farre, by Seas and Lands,
It makes them in a manner to shake hands.
It fils our Land with plenty wonderfull,
From th'Esterne Indies from the great Mogull,
From France, from Portingale, from Venice, Spaine,
From Denmarke, Norway, it scuds o're the maine,
Vnto this Kingdome it doth wealth acrue
From beyond China, farre beyond Peru.
From Belgia, Almaine, the West Indies, and
From Guiny, Biny, Island, New found-land,
This little seed is the great instrument
To shew the power of God Omnipotent,
Whereby the glorious Gospell of his Sonne,
Millions misled soules hath from Sathan wonne.

It is an instrument by the appointment of God for the encrease
of the Gospell of Christ.

Those that knew no God in the times of yore,
Now they their great Creator doe adore.
And many that did thinke they did doe well
To giue themselues a sacrifice to Hell,
And seru'd the Diuell with th'inhumane slaughters,
Of their vnhappy haplesse sonnes and daughters,
Now they the remnant of their liues do frame
To praise their Makers and Redeemers name.
Witnesse Virginia; witnesse many moe,
Witnesse our selues few hundred yeares agoe,
When in Religion, and in barbarous natures,
We were poore wretched misbeleeuing creatures.
How had Gods Preachers saild to sundry coasts,
T' instruct men how to know the Lord of Hosts?
But for the Sayles which he with wind doth fill.
As Seruants to accomplish his great will.
But leauing this high supernaturall straine,
I'le talke of Hempseed in a lower vaine.
How should we hauve gold, siluer, jems, or Iewels,
Wine, oyle, spice, rice, and diuers sorts of fewels:
Food for the belly, cloathing for the backe,
Silke, Sattin, Veluet, any thing we lacke,
To serue necessities ? How should we get
Such sorts of plenteous fish, but with the net ?
The Smelt, Roach, Salmon, Flounder and the Dace,
Would in fresh riuers keepe their dwelling place.
The Ling, Cod, Herring, Sturgeon, such as these
Would liue and dye in their owne natiue Seas.
Without this seed the Whale could not be caught,
Whereby our oyles are out of Greenland brought.
Nay wer't not for the net made of this seed,
Men could not catch a Sprat whereon to feed.
Besides, it liberally each where bestowes
A liuing vpon thousands where it growes ;
As beaters, Spinners, Weauers, and a crue
Of haltermakers which could scarce liue true,

But for th'imployment which this little graine
Doth vse them in, and payes them for their paine.

Mirth and Truth are good companions.

The Rope makers, the Net makers, and all
Would be trade falne, for their trade would fall.
Besides, what multitudes of Fishers are
In euery Sea-towne, numbers past compare,
Whilest they their seruants, children, and their wiues
From Hempseeed get their liuing all their liues.
The Fish-mongers would quickly goe to wrack,
The lacke of this seed would be their great lack,
And being now rich, and in good reputation,
They would haue neither Hall nor Corporation.
And all that they could buy, or sell, or barter,
Would scarce be worth a Gubbin once a quarter.
The mounting Larke, that seemes so high to flye,
Vntill she seemes no greater then a Flie ;
And to the flaming Sunne doth chirp and prate,
Doth in the net come to her ending date.
My neighbour Woodcocke, buzzard and the Gull,
And Philip Sparrow all most plentifull.
All sorts of faire fowle, or the foulest fowle,
From the degree of the Eagle to the Owle,
Are with ingenuous jins, grins, nets and snares
For mans reliefe oft taken vnawares :
Deeres, Hares, and Conies would too much abound,
And ouer-run the bearing breeding bround,
And Weazels, Polcats, Wildcats, Stoats and such
Like spoyling Vermin, would annoy men much,
Buf for toyles, hayes, for traps, for snares and grins,
Which brings vs food, and profit by their skins.
No Plowman liues beneath the azure Cope,
But for his plough or cart must vse the rope :
No Hostler liues in ours, or other Lands,
But makes the halters Horses falling bands.
Bels would hang dead within the loftie steeple
And neuer call to Church forgetfull people,
Mute like a bagbite, that hath lost his bag,
Except the Bell ropes made the clappers wag.
It were an endlesse taske to goe about it,
To reckon those that cannot liue without it.
Alasse what would our silken Mercers be ?
What could they doe (sweet Hempseed) but for thee?
Rash, Taffata, Paropa, and Nouato,
Shagg, Fillizetta, Damaske and Mockado,
No Veluets, Piles, two Piles, pile and halfe Pile,
No Plush, or Grograines could adorne this Ile,
No cloth of siluer, Gold, or Tisue, here :
Philip and Cheiny neuer would appeare
Within our bounds, nor any Flanders-serge
Could euer come within our Kingdomes verge :
Should Mercers want these things with diuers more
Their trade were nothing or else very poore.
This seed doth helpe the Grocer euery season,
Or else his wisedome could not yeeld a reison ;

He could not long be Currant in his state,
And (scarcely worth a fig) would end his Date.
For Cloues his credit would be clouen quick,
Nor from the loafe or lumpe, his lips could licke :
No Nutmegs, Liquoris, or biting graines,
Or Almons for a Parrat, were his gaines,
Sans Ginger weakely he would run his Race,
And Powltry Mace, would put down Indian Mace:
And he vnable (through his want of pelfe)
To pepper vs, or yet to prune himselfe.
The Draper of his wealth would much be shorted.
But that our cloathes and Kersies are transported,
Our cottons, penistones, frizadoes, baze,
Our sundry sorts of frizes, blackes and grayes.
And linnen Drapers but for transportation,
Could hardly Canuase out their occupation.
Hempseed doth yeeld or else it doth allow
Lawne, Cambricke, Holland Canuase, Callico,
Normandy, Hambrough, strong poledauis, Lockram.
And to make vp the Rime (with reason) Buckram.
The Goldsmiths trade would totter and unsettle,
And he could be a man of no good mettle,
Were't not for Sailes and Ropes that Ships doe rig,
That bring gold, siluer, many a Sow and Pig ;
Which makes them by an admirable skill
To liue by that which many a Horse doth kill,
Which is the *Fashions ; for continually
They sell the fashion, but they seldome buy.

A Goldsmith and a Taylor liue by that which will kill a horse.

And braue wine Marchants, little were your gaine,
By Mallegoes, Canaries Sacke from Spaine,
Sweet Allegant, and the concocted Cute,
Hollock and Tent would be of small repute;

O all you Bachinalian drunkards honour Hemp-seed.

Your Bastards their owne Fathers would forget,
Nor they our Gossips lips no more would wet.
The wind no Muskadine could hither bandy,
Or sprightfull Malmesey out of fruitfull Candy.
Liatica or Corsica could not
From their owne bearing breeding bounds be got.
Peter-se-mea, or head strong Charnico,
Sherry, nor Rob-o-Dauy here could flow.
The French Frontiniacke, Claret, Red nor White,
Graues nor High-Country could our hearts delight.
No Gascoygne, Orleance, or the Chrystall Sherrant
Nor Rhenish from the Rheine would be apparent.
Thus Hempseed, wth these wines, our land doth spread
Which if we want, wine Marchants trades were dead.
The Vintners trade were hardly worth a rush
Vnable to hang vp a signe, or bush ;
And were't not for this small forgotten graine
Their coniuring at midnight would be vaine.
Anon, anon, would be forgotten soone,
And he might score a pudding in the Moone,

But not a pinte of Claret in the Sunne,
Because the emptie hogshead could not runne.
His blushing lattice would looke pale and wan,
Nor could he long be a well liquord man :
No more could all his regiments of pots
Affright men daily, with scores, bills, and shots.
The Taylors trade would hardly get them bread
If Hempseed did not furnish them with thread ;
And though it be a terror to most theeues
Yet it this occupation neuer greeues,
They loue it, black, brown, yellow, greene, red, blew,
Which is a signe, that Taylers must be true :
The worthy Company, of warme lin'd Skinners
Would in short space be miserable sinners
If Hempseed did not oft supply their boxes
With Russian Sables, Miniuers and Foxes :
With Beares, & Budges; and rare powdered Ermines,
And with the skins of divers beasts and Vermines.
The Habberdasher of small ware, would be
In a small time, a man of small degree :
If Hempseed did not help him by the great,
Small would his gaines be, to buy cloathes or meat.
Then might his wares be rightly tearmed small
Which would by eyther few or none at all.
And * Dyers though you doe no colours feare,
'Tis Hempseed that doth you to riches reare,
Woad, Madder, Indico, and Cutcheneale,
Brazil, and Logwood, and aboundant deale
Of drugs, which did they not your wants supply,
You could not liue, because you could not dye.

They might liue to dye poorely, but not dye to liue rich.

Apothecaries were not worth a pin,
If Hempseed did not bring their commings in ;
Oyles, Vnguents, Sirrops, Minerals, and Baulmes,
(All Natures treasures, and th' Almighties almes,)
Emplasters, Simples, Compounds, sundry drugs
With Necromanticke names like fearefull Bugs,
Fumes, Vomits, purges, that both cures, and kils,
Extractions, conserues, preserues, potions, pils,
Ellixers, simples, compounds, distillations,
Gums in abundance, brought from foraigne nations.

A braue world for Physitions and Chyrurgions the while.

And all or most of these forenamed things
Helpe, health, preseruatiues ; and riches brings.
There's many a Gallant dallying with a Drab,
Hath got the Spanish pip, or Naples scab,
The Galliæ Morbus or the Scottish fleas,
Or English Poxe, for all's but one disease.
And though they were perfum'd with Ciuet hot
Yet wanting these things they would stinke and rot,
With gowts, Consumptions, Palsies, Lethargies,
With apoplexies, quinzies, plurisies,
Cramps, cataracts, the teare-throat cough and tisick
From which, to health men are restore'd by Physicke,

Agues, quotidian, quartane, tertian, or
The leprosie, which all men doe abhor.
The stone, strangury, botches, biles, or blaines,
Head-aches, cankers, swimming of the braines,
Ruptures, Herniaaquosa or Carnosa,
Or the Eolian hernia ventosa.
All Dropsies, Collicks, Iaundizes, or Scabs,
Gangrenaes, Vlcers, wounds, and mortall stabs.
Illiaca passioes, Megrims, Mumps, or Mange,
Contagious blouds, which throgh the veins do range
Scurfes, meazles, murraines, fluxes, all these griefes,
Transported medicines daily bring releefes,
Most seruiceable Hempseed but for thee,
These helpes for man could not thus scattered be.
Tobacoes fire would soone be quenched out,
Nor would it leade men by the nose about :
Nor could the Merchants of such Heathen Docks
From small beginnings purchase mighty stocks :
By follies daily dancing to their pipe
Their states from rotten stinking weeds grow ripe ;
By which meanes they haue into Lordships run
The Clients being beggered and, vndone :
Who hauing smoak'd their Land, to fire and ayre
They whiffe and puffe themselues into dispaire
Ouid 'mongst all his Metamorphosis
Ne're knew a * transformation like to this,
Nor yet could Oedipus e're vnderstand,
How to turne Land to smoake, and smoake to Land.
For by the meanes of this bewitching smother,
One Element is turn'd into another,
As Land to fire, fire into Ayrie matter,
From ayre (too late repenting) turnes to water.

A strange change, and yet not stranger then for the women of
these times to be turn'd to the shapes of men.

By Hempseed thus, fire water, aire, earth, all
Are chang'd by pudding, leafe, roule, pipe and ball.

by John Taylor published 1620
Last Edit: 3 years, 5 months ago by PMoondancer .
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#21060 3 years, 5 months ago
^I LOVE this poem^ LOL Thanks

LBDowling, thinking of you and hope you are well today..

Here are a few more favorites

by Alfred Noyes

Everyone grumbled. The sky was grey.
We had nothing to do and nothing to say.
We were nearing the end of a dismal day,
And then there seemed to be nothing beyond,
Daddy fell into the pond!

And everyone's face grew merry and bright,
And Timothy danced for sheer delight.
"Give me the camera, quick, oh quick!
He's crawling out of the duckweed!" Click!

Then the gardener suddenly slapped his knee,
And doubled up, shaking silently,
And the ducks all quacked as if they were daft,
And it sounded as if the old drake laughed.
Oh, there wasn't a thing that didn't respond
Daddy Fell into the pond!

Nature, the Gentlest Mother
Emily Dickinson

Nature, the gentlest mother,
Impatient of no child,
The feeblest or the waywardest,
Her admonition mild

In forest and the hill
By traveller is heard,
Restraining rampant squirrel
Or too impetuous bird.

How fair her conversation,
A summer afternoon,--
Her household, her assembly;
And when the sun goes down

Her voice among the aisles
Incites the timid prayer
Of the minutest cricket,
The most unworthy flower.

When all the children sleep
She turns as long away
As will suffice to light her lamps;
Then, bending from the sky

With infinite affection
And infiniter care,
Her golden finger on her lip,
Wills silence everywhere.

a poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes

Little I ask; my wants are few;
I only wish a hut of stone,
(A very plain brown stone will do,)
That I may call my own;
And close at hand is such a one,
In yonder street that fronts the sun.

Plain food is quite enough for me;
Three courses are as good as ten;
If Nature can subsist on three,
Thank Heaven for three. Amen!
I always thought cold victual nice;
My choice would be vanilla-ice.

I care not much for gold or land;
Give me a mortgage here and there,
Some good bank-stock, some note of hand,
Or trifling railroad share,
I only ask that Fortune send
A little more than I shall spend.

Honors are silly toys, I know,
And titles are but empty names;
I would, perhaps, be Plenipo,
But only near St. James;
I'm very sure I should not care
To fill our Gubernator's chair.

Jewels are baubles; 't is a sin
To care for such unfruitful things;
One good-sized diamond in a pin,
Some, not so large, in rings,
A ruby, and a pearl, or so,
Will do for me; - I laugh at show.

My dame should dress in cheap attire;
(Good, heavy silks are never dear;)
I own perhaps I might desire
Some shawls of true Cashmere,
Some marrowy crapes of China silk,
Like wrinkled skins on scalded milk.

I would not have the horse I drive
So fast that folks must stop and stare;
An easy gait - two forty-five
Suits me; I do not care;
Perhaps, for just a single spurt,
Some seconds less would do no hurt.

Of pictures, I should like to own
Titians and Raphaels three or four,
I love so much their style and tone,
One Turner, and no more,
(A landscape, - foreground golden dirt,
The sunshine painted with a squirt.)

Of books but few, - some fifty score
For daily use, and bound for wear;
The rest upon an upper floor;
Some little luxury there
Of red morocco's gilded gleam
And vellum rich as country cream.

Busts, cameos, gems, such things as these,
Which others often show for pride,
I value for their power to please,
And selfish churls deride;
One Stradivarius, I confess,
Two Meerschaums, I would fain possess.

Wealth's wasteful tricks I will not learn,
Nor ape the glittering upstart fool;
Shall not carved tables serve my turn,
But all must be of buhl?
Give grasping pomp its double share,
I ask but one recumbent chair.

Thus humble let me live and die,
Nor long for Midas' golden touch;
If Heaven more generous gifts deny,
I shall not miss them much,
Too grateful for the blessing lent
Of simple tastes and mind content!

Beautiful Soup - a poem by Lewis Carroll

BEAUTIFUL Soup, so rich and green,
Waiting in a hot tureen!
Who for such dainties would not stoop?
Soup of the evening, beautiful Soup!
Soup of the evening, beautiful Soup!

Beau--ootiful Soo-oop!
Beau--ootiful Soo-oop!
Soo--oop of the e--e--evening,
Beautiful, beautiful Soup!

Beautiful Soup! Who cares for fish,
Game, or any other dish?
Who would not give all else for two
Pennyworth only of Beautiful Soup?
Pennyworth only of beautiful Soup?

Beau--ootiful Soo-oop!
Beau--ootiful Soo-oop!
Soo--oop of the e--e--evening,
Beautiful, beauti--FUL SOUP!
"if you don't like the news go out and make some of your own"
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Re: Poet's Corner..Post Your Favorites

#21071 3 years, 5 months ago
by Lewis Carroll

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wade;
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 wiffling 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.

LOL, Paige
Last Edit: 3 years, 5 months ago by PMoondancer .
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