Sunday, December 30, 2007


Father calls me William, sister calls me Will,
Mother calls me Willie, but the fellers call me Bill!
Mighty glad I ain't a girl-ruther be a boy,
Without them sashes, curls, an' things, that's worn by Fauntleroy!
Love to chawnk green apples an' go swimmin' in the lake-
Hate to take the castor-ile they give for belly-ache!
'Most all the time, the whole year round, there ain't no flies on me,
But jest 'fore Christmas I'm as good as I kin be!
Got a yeller dog named Sport, sick him on the cat;
First thing she knows she doesn't know where she is at!
Got a clipper sled, an' when us kids goes out to slide,
'Long comes the grocery cart, an' we all hook a ride!
But sometimes when the grocery man is worrited an' cross,
He reaches at us with his whip, an' larrups up his hoss,
An' then I laff an' hollar, "Oh, ye never teched me!"
But jest 'fore Christmas I'm as good as I kin be!
Gran'ma says she hopes that when I git to be a man,
I'll be a missionarer like her oldest brother, Dan,
As was et up by the cannibuls that lives in Ceylon's Isle,
Where every prospeck pleases, an' only man is vile!
But gran'ma she has never been to see a Wild West Show,
Nor read the Life of Daniel Boone, or else I guess she'd Know
That Buff'lo Bill an' cow-boys is good enough for me!
Excep' jest 'fore Christmas, when I'm good as I kin be!
And then old Sport he hangs around, so solemn-like an' still,
His eyes they seem a-sayin': "What's the matter, little Bill?"
The old cat sneaks down off her perch an' wonders what's become
Of them two enemies of hern that used to make things hum!
But I am so perlite an' 'tend so earnestly to biz,
That mother says to father: "How improved our Willie is!"
But father, havin' been a boy hisself, suspicions me
When, jest 'fore Christmas, I'm as good as I kin be!
For Christmas, with its lots an' lots of candies, cakes, an' toys,
Was made, they say, for proper kids, an' not for naughty boys:
So wash yer face an' bresh yer hair, an' mind yer p's and q's,
An' don't bust out yer pantaloons, and don't wear out yer shoes;
Say "Yessum" to the ladies, an' "Yessur" to the men,
An' when they's company, don't pass yer plate for pie again;
But, thinkin' of the things yer'd like to see upon that tree,
Jest 'fore Christmas be as good as yer kin be!

Sunday, December 23, 2007


Thursday, December 20, 2007


The Snow that never drifts-
The transient, fragrant snow
That comes a single time a Year
Is softly driving now-

So thorough in the tree
At night beneath the star
That it was February's Foot
Experience would swear-

Like Winter as a Face
We stern and former knew
Repaired of all but Loneliness
By Nature's Alibit-

Were every storm so spice
The Value could not be-
We buy with contrast--Pang is good
As near as memory--

SNOW FLAKES by Emily Dickinson

Snow flakes.

I counted till they danced so
Their slippers leaped the town,
And then I took a pencil
To note the rebels down.
And then they grew so jolly
I did resign the prig,
And ten of my once stately toes
Are marshalled for a jig!

Tuesday, December 18, 2007


All day long they come and go-
Pittypat and Tippytoe;
Footprints up and down the hall,
Playthings scattered on the floor,
Finger-marks along the wall,
Tell-tale smudges on the door-
By these presents you shall know
Pittypat and Tippytoe.

How they riot at their play!
And a dozen times a day
In they troop, demanding bread-
Only buttered bread will do,
And that butter must be spread
Inches thick with sugar too!
And I never can say, "No,
Pittypat and Tippytoe!"

Sometimes there are griefs to soothe,
Sometimes ruffled brows to smooth;
For (I much regret to say)
Tippytoe and Pittypat
Sometimes interrupt their play
With an internecine spat;
Fie, for shame! to quarrel so-
Pittypat and Tippytoe!

Oh, the thousand worrying things
Every day recurrent brings!
Hands to scrub and hair to brush,
Search for playthings gone amiss,
Many a wee complaint to hush,
Many a little bump to kiss;
Life seems one vain, fleeting show
To Pittypat and Tippytoe!

And when day is at an end,
There are little duds to mend:
Little frocks are strangely torn,
Little shoes great holes reveal,
Little hose, but one day worn,
Rudely yawn at toe and heel!
Who but you could work such woe,
Pittypat and Tippytoe?

But when comes this thought to me:
"Some there are that childless be,"
Stealing to their little beds,
With a love I cannot speak,
Tenderly I stroke their heads-
Fondly kiss each velvet cheek.
God help those who do not know
A Pittypat and Tippytoe!

Oh the floor and down the hall,
Rudely smutched upon the wall,
There are proofs in every kind
Of the havoc they have wrought,
And upon my heart you'd find
Just such trade-marks, if you sought;
Oh, how glad I am 'tis so,
Pittypat and Tippytoe!

Saturday, December 15, 2007

THE NEW COW by August Derleth

The new cow came through the gate,
And her calf came after, a little late.
No longer willing to be led,
The calf went on ahead,
While she stood to look around
Over the hills and lower ground
Stood shyly, defiantly there,
Smelling flower-fragrant air,
And gazed toward the old cows
Grouped on the way before.
Knowing not how she might stay
Among them, stranger still,
She hesitated yet, now they had turned
At the foot of the hill
And seemed to wait for her at the gate,
To wait for her who was strange and thin,
Til she came on,
And they opened their ranks
To take her in.

THE COW by Robert Louis Stevenson

The friendly cow all red and white,
I love with all my heart:
She gives me cream with all her might,
To eat with apple-tart.
She wanders lowing here and there,
And yet she cannot stray,
All in the pleasant open air,
The pleasant light of day;
And blown by all the winds that pass
And wet with all the showers,
She walks among the meadow grass
And eats the meadow flowers.

Thursday, December 13, 2007

TO A LITTLE BROOK by Eugene Field

You're not so big as you were then,
O little brook!-
I mean those hazy summers when
We boys roamed, full of awe, beside
Your noisy, foaming, tumbling tide,
And wondered if it could be true
That there were bigger brooks than you,
O mighty brook, O peerless brook!
All up and down this reedy place
Where lives the brook,
We angled for the furtive dace;
The redwing-blackbird did his best
To make us think he'd build his nest
Hard by the stream, when, like as not,
He'd hung it in a secret spot
Far from the brook, the telltale brook!
And often, when the noontime heat
Parboiled the brook,
We'd draw our boots and swing our feet
Upon the waves that, in their play,
Would tag us last and scoot away;
And mother never seemed to know
What burnt our legs and chapped them so-
But father guessed it was the brook!
And Fido-how he loved to swim
The cooling brook,
Whenever we'd throw sticks for him;
And how we boys did wish that we
Could only swim as good as he-
Why, Daniel Webster never was
Recipient of such great applause
As Fido, battling with the brook!
But once-O most unhappy day
For you, my brook!-
Came Cousin Sam along that way;
And, having lived a spell out West,
Where creeks aren't counted much at best,
He neither waded, swam, nor leapt,
But, with superb indifference, stept
Across that brook-our mighty brook!
Why do you scamper on your way,
You little brook,
When I come back to you to-day?
Is it because you flee the grass
That lunges at you as you pass,
As if, in playful mood, it would
Tickle the truant if it could,
You chuckling brook-you saucy brook?
Or is it you no longer know-
You fickle brook-
The honest friend of long ago?
The years that kept us twain apart
Have changed my face, but not my heart-
Many and sore those years, and yet
I fancied you could not forget
That happy time, my playmate brook!
Oh, sing again in artless glee,
My little brook,
The song you used to sing for me-
The song that's lingered in my ears
So soothingly these many years;
My grief shall be forgotten when
I hear your tranquil voice again
And that sweet song, dear little brook!

Sunday, December 9, 2007



Friday, December 7, 2007


This is my letter to the world,
That never wrote to me, -
The simple news that Nature told,
With tender majesty.
Her message is committed
To hands I cannot see;
For love of her, sweet countrymen,
Judge tenderly of me!

Tuesday, December 4, 2007


IN FAIRYLAND by Joyce Kilmer
The fairy poet takes a sheet
Of moonbeam, silver white;
His ink is dew from daisies sweet,
His pen a point of light.
My love I know is fairer far
Than his, (though she is fair,)
And we should dwell where fairies are-
For I could praise her there.
Children born of fairy stock
Never need for shirt or frock,
Never want for food or fire,
Always get their heart's desire:
Jingle pockets full of gold,
Marry when they're seven years old.
Every fairy child may keep
Two strong ponies and ten sheep;
All have houses, each his own,
Built of brick or granite stone;
They live on cheeries, they run wild-
I'd love to be a fairy's child.
They're sleeping beneath the roses;
Oh! kiss them before they rise,
And tickle their tiny noses,
And sprinkle the dew on their eyes.
Make haste, make haste;
The fairies are caught;
Make haste.
We'll put them in silver cages,
And send them full-dress'd to court,
And maids of honor and pages
Shall turn the poor things to sport.
Be quick, be quick;
Be quicker than thought;
Be quick.
Their scarves shall be pennons for lancers,
We'll tie up our flowers with their curls,
Their plumes will make fans for dancers,
Their tears shall be set with pearls.
Be wise, be wise;
Make the most of the prize;
Be wise.
They'll scatter sweet scents by winking,
With sparks from under their feet;
They'll save us the trouble of thinking,
Their voices will sound so sweet.
Oh stay, oh stay:
They're up and away:
Oh stay!

Friday, November 30, 2007


Lily Puffin sat on a rock,
Looking out to sea.
Her red feet stuck out
On both sides,
Her wings flapped happily.

"I am a Puffin bird," she said,
"But I strongly disagree;
That I must fly, just cause I can,
When walking pleases me."

"My red feet stretch from heel to toe.
They take me where I want to go!
And I much prefer to use them.
Than let my wings do all the work,
Carrying me here and there,
Over seas and trees and cows,
What are feet for, anyhow?"

"This year when all my Puffin chums
Fly off to warmer lands and suns;
I'll click my heels and stretch my toes,
And WALK there, following my nose."

Well, this just would not do, y0u see.
Lily Puffin's friends did not agree!


She CAN'T fly!

That's why she says that walking is better.
She's afraid to fly, but we won't let her
Think that she can walk instead.

Birds are made to fly and glide
Up in the clouds where they can hide.
Inside and outside and upside and downside,
Behind and in back and in front of again.
What a disgrace not to be
A proud flying Puffin!

"Oh Lily!" said Hortense, her Puffin bird friend.
"Oh please Lily don't ever say that again!
That you won't fly up in the sky like we do,
Your feet were not meant to walk in a shoe.
Or go on a trip such as you want to do."

"Why, just think, Lily," Hortense began,
"If you walk all the way like you think that you can.
All the dangers that wait for a Puffin bird who,
Wants to walk on the land with red feet, like you do."

"There are creatures that eat little Puffins, and then;
There are creatures who are even bigger than them!
There are creatures who sneak through
The dark woods at night,
They can gobble you up with just one big bite!
And then there won't be a trace left of you,
If you try to do what birds shouldn't do!"

"Oh hush Hortense, really! You're being quite silly!
And to show you how wrong you all can be,
I'll fly around so you can see,
That I CAN fly, just like a bird,
Although I think that it's absurd.
Flying is silly and foolish to me,
I take my red feet and my walking
Quite seriously!"

And with that, up up in the sky Lily flew,
Until only two red feet were in view.
Around and around, she did her best trick,
She flew to the sun and then gave a kick.
And down Lily came, with a slight bow.
All the other birds yelled
"See Lily, see how,
Much more fun to fly than to walk on the ground?"

But Lily just listened to them with a frown.

"Don't you see that just cause I can do such a thing,
Doesn't mean that it makes me happily sing.
Because I don't have to
Walk or run,
I just WANT to do it, because it's such FUN!"

"Nothing you say will change my mind.
Tomorrow I'm leaving, who knows what I'll find!
Don't try to change my mind, cause it's made.
I'll be there before you, lying out in the shade
Of the old brown rock by the sea by the shore,
Thinking about my adventures galore!
Now not another word about
Silly flying flight!
I need my rest, walking is hard,
So good night!"


Would Lily Puffin make it?
Would Lily Puffin win?
Would something eat her on the way,
Or would she live another day?

No one seemed to think she could,
Except for Lily, she KNEW she would!

Next morning all the Puffins hid
Behind the rock where Lily lived.
To watch her leave her summer home
To follow the shore to a warmer dome.

She kicked her heels and bent her toes,
She combed her feathers and blew her nose.
She put her suitcase under her wing,
She turned and looked without saying a thing.
And waved farewell to her friend Hortense,
Who cried in the corner with sad intense.

"Now I am ready to walk all the way,
But before I leave I want to say:
I know you think that I'm a nut
Because I love to walk and strut.
But remember this, ANY bird can fly,
But none can do the same as I."

Will she do it?
Will she win?
Will Lily be there to greet her friends?

At the end of their journey
They rushed up to see
If Lily was there by the rock, by the sea.

They looked and looked, oh could it be?
Yes, yes, two red feet sticking out of the sea!
It was Lily, yes Lily, she had done what she said,
And oh, what adventures that she had led!
But now she is busy, too busy to talk,
She is teaching her Puffin friends how to walk!

Someday if you see lots of Puffins stroll by
All in a line with their heads held up high,
Go over and talk to Lily a bit,
She'll be glad to tell you about her trip!

Wednesday, November 28, 2007

A MINOR BIRD by Robert Frost

I have wished a bird would fly away,
And not sing by my house all day;

Have clapped my hands at him from the door
When it seemed as if I could bear no more.

The fault must partly have been in me.
The bird was not to blame for his key.

And of course there must be something wrong
In wanting to silence any song.


As I went out a Crow
In a low voice said, "Oh,
I was looking for you.
How do you do?
I just came to tell you
To tell Lesley (will you?)
That her little Bluebird
Wanted me to bring word
That the north wind last night
That made the stars bright
And made ice on the trough
Almost made him cough
His tail feathers off.
He just had to fly!
But he sent her Good-by,
And said to be good,
And wear her red hood,
And look for skunk tracks
In the snow with an ax-
And do everything!
And perhaps in the spring
He would come back and sing."


I also have a pileated woodpecker in my yard. Oh the joy! They are huge, beautiful and prehistoric looking. I'll try to get a photo of it if possible.


I have bluebirds in my yard! I didn't know they stayed here in the New England winter, but I guess they do. This photo isn't mine, but this is what they look like in case you don't know.

Monday, November 26, 2007




Sunday, November 25, 2007


REMEMBER by Christina Rossetti

Remember me when I am gone away,

Gone far away into the silent land,

When you can no more hold me by the hand,

Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.

Remember me when no more day by day

You tell me of our future that you plann'd:

Only remember me; you understand

It will be late to counsel then or pray.

Yet if you should forget me for a while

And afterwards remember, do not grieve:

For if the darkness and corruption leave

A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,

Better by far you should forget and smile

Than that you should remember and be sad.

DEAF MARTHA by Kate Greenaway

Poor Martha is old, and her hair is turn'd grey,

And her hearing has left her for many a year;

Ten to one if she knows what it is that you say,

Though she puts her poor wither'd hand close to her ear.

I've seen naughty children run after her fast,

And cry, "Martha, run, there's a bullock so bold;"

And when she was frighten'd, - laugh at her at last,

Because she believed the sad stories they told.

I've seen others put their mouths close to her ear,

And make signs as if they had something to say;

And when she said, "Master, I'm deaf, and can't hear,"

Point at her and mock her, and scamper away.

Ah! wicked the children poor Martha to tease,

As if she had not enough else to endure:

They rather should try her affliction to ease,

And soothe a disorder that nothing can cure.

One day, when those children themselves are grown old,

And one may be deaf, and another be lame,

Perhaps they may find that some children, as bold,

May tease them, and mock them, and serve them the same.

Then, when they reflect on the days of their youth,

A faithful account will their consciences keep,

And teach them, with shame and with sorrow, the truth,

That "what a man soweth, the same shall he reap."

Friday, November 23, 2007


That's a full moon behind all those trees up there. Quiet and spooky. And of course the moon is always BITCH. A moon poem.
What the little girl said
The Moon's the North Wind's cookie,
He bites it day by day,
Until there's but a rim of scraps
That crumble all away.
The South Wind is a baker
He kneads clouds in his den,
And bakes a crisp new moon that...greedy
SILVER by Walter De La Mare
Slowly, silently, now the moon
Walks the night in her silver shoon;
This way, and that, she peers, and sees
Silver fruit upon silver trees;
One by one the casements catch
Her beams beneath the silver thatch;
Couched in his kennel, like a log,
With paws of silver sleeps the dog;
From their shadowy cote the white breasts peep
Of doves in a silver-feathered sleep;
A harvest mouse goes scampering by,
With silver claws, and silver eye;
And moveless fish in the water gleam,
By silver reeds in a silver stream.

Thursday, November 22, 2007


Today is Thanksgiving, hope you all enjoy your day. More than the turkey will, I'm sure. Oh, and don't drink too much, like this bird brain. Sometimes it's hard to decide where to spend Thanksgiving day; here or there, with this one or that one, go far or stay close, paper or plastic. This poem reminds me of Thanksgiving.
THE ROAD NOT TAKEN by Robert Frost
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that, the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Tuesday, November 20, 2007

NOVEMBER by Alice Cary

The leaves are fading and falling,
The winds are rough and wild,
The birds have ceased their calling,
But let me tell you, my child,

Though day by day, as it closes,
Doth darker and colder grow,
The roots of the bright red roses
Will keep alive in the snow.

And when the winter is over,
The boughs will get new leaves,
The quail come back to the clover,
And the swallow back to the eaves.

The robin will wear on his bosom
A vest that is bright and new,
And the loveliest wayside blossom
Will shine with the sun and dew.

The leaves today are whirling,
The brooks are dry and dumb,
But let me tell you, my darling,
That spring will be sure to come.

There must be rough, cold weather,
And winds and rains so wild;
Not all good things together
Come to us here, my child.

So, when some dear joy loses
Its beauteous summer glow,
Think how the roots of the roses
Are kept alive in the snow.


I stood beside a hill
Smooth with new-laid snow,
A single star looked out
From the cold evening glow.

There was no other creature
That saw what I could see-
I stood and watched the evening star
As long as it watched me.

THE SNOWFLAKE by Walter De La Mare

Before I melt,
Come, look at me!
This lovely icy filigree!
Of a great forest
In one night
I make a wilderness
Of white:
By skyey cold
Of crystals made,
All softly, on
Your finger laid,
I pause, that you
My beauty see:
Breathe; and I vanish

VELVET SHOES by Elinor Wylie

Let us walk in the white snow
In a soundless space;
With footsteps quiet and slow,
At a tranquil pace,
Under veils of white lace.

I shall go shod in silk,
And you in wool,
White as a white cow's milk,
More beautiful
Than the breast of a gull.

We shall walk through the still town
In a windless peace;
We shall step upon white down,
Upon silver fleece,
Upon softer than these.

We shall walk in velvet shoes:
Wherever we go
Silence will fall like dews
On white silence below.
We shall walk in the snow.


Winter is here in New England. I hate winter. I like looking at it from inside a warm house. However, I hate driving in it, walking in it, working in it, being in it. Why am I in it, then? Beats me. Poems about winter are nice, though.

Sunday, November 18, 2007



"Will you walk into my parlor?" said the spider to the fly;
"Tis the prettiest little parlor that ever you did spy.
The way into my parlor is up a winding stair,
And I have many pretty things to show when you are there."

"O no, no," said the little fly, "to ask me is in vain

"For who goes up your winding stair can ne'er come down again."

"I'm sure you must be weary, dear, with soaring up so high;

Will you rest upon my little bed?" said the spider to the fly.

"There are pretty curtains drawn around, the sheets are fine and thin,

And if you like to rest awhile, I'll snugly tuck you in,"

"O no, no," said the little fly, "for I've often heard it said,

They never, never wake again, who sleep upon your bed."

Said the cunning spider to the fly, "Dear friend, what shall I do,

To prove the warm affection I've always felt for you?

I have within my pantry good store of all that's nice;

I'm sure you're very welcome; will you please to take a slice?"

"O no, no," said the little fly, "kind sir, that cannot be;

I've heard what's in your pantry, and I do not wish to see."

"Sweet creature!" said the spider, "you're witty and you're wise.

How handsome are your gauzy wings, how brilliant are your eyes!

I have a little looking-glass upon my parlor shelf,

If you'll step in one moment, dear, you shall behold yourself."

"I thank you, gentle sir, " she said, 'for what you're pleased to say,

And bidding you good morning soon, I'll call another day."

The spider turned him round about, and went into his den,

For well he knew the silly fly would soon be back again:

So he wove a subtle web, in a little corner sly,

And set his table ready to dine upon the fly.

Then he came out to his door again, and merrily did sing,

"Come hither, hither, pretty fly, with the pearl and silver wing:

Your robes are green and purple; there's a crest upon your head;

Your eyes are like the diamond bright, but mine are dull as lead."

Alas, alas! how very soon this silly little fly,

Hearing his wily flattering words, came slowly flitting by.

With buzzing wings she hung aloft, then near and nearer drew,

Thinking only of her brilliant eyes, and green and purple hue;

Thinking only of her crested head-poor foolish thing! At last,

Up jumped the cunning spider, and fiercely held her fast.

He dragged her up his winding stair, into his dismal den,

Within his little parlor; but she ne'er came out again!

And now, dear little children, who may this story read,

To idle, silly, flattering words, I pray you ne'er give heed;

Unto an evil counselor close heart, and ear, and eye,

And take a lesson from this tale of the spider and the fly.

TO A BUTTERFLY by William Wordsworth

I've watched you now a full half hour
Self-poised upon that yellow flower;
And, little butterfly, indeed,
I know not if you sleep or feed.
How motionless!-not frozen seas
More motionless; and then,
What joy awaits you when the breeze
Hath found you out among the trees,
And calls you forth again!
This plot of orchard ground is ours,
My trees they are, my sister's flowers;
Here rest your wings, when they are weary,
Here lodge as in a sanctuary!
Come to us often, fear no wrong,
Sit near us on the bough!
We'll talk of sunshine and of song,
And summer days when we were young;
Sweet childish days that were so long
As twenty days are now.
THE BUTTERFLY'S DAY by Emily Dickinson
From cocoon forth a butterfly
As lady from her door
Emerged-a summer afternoon-
Repairing everywhere,
Without design, that I could trace,
Except to stray abroad
On miscellaneous enterprise
The clovers understood.
Her pretty parasol was seen
Contracting in a field
Where men made hay, then struggling hard
With an opposing cloud,
Where parties, phantom as herself,
To Nowhere seemed to go
In purposeless circumference,
As't were a tropic show.
And notwithstanding bee that worked,
And flower that zealous blew,
This audience of idleness
Disdained them, from the sky,
Till sundown crept, a steady tide,
And men that made the hay,
And afternoon, and butterfly,
Extinguished in its sea.

SEAL by William Jay Smith

See how he dives
From the rocks with a zoom!
See how he darts
Through his watery room
Past crabs and eels
And green seaweed,
Past fluffs of sandy
Minnow feed!
See how he swims
With a swerve and a twist,
A flip of the flipper,
A flick of the wrist!
Softer than spray,
Down he plunges
And sweeps away;
Before you can think,
Before you can utter
Words like "Dill pickle"
Or "Apple butter,"
Back up he swims
Past Sting Ray and Shark,
Out with a zoom,
A whoop, a bark;
Before you can say
Whatever you wish,
He plops at your side
With a mouthful of fish!

Saturday, November 17, 2007


LONE DOG by Irene Rutherford McLeod

I'm a lean dog, a keen dog, a wild dog, and lone;

I'm a rough dog, a tough dog, hunting on my own;

I'm a bad dog, a mad dog, teasing silly sheep;

I love to sit and bay the moon, to keep fat souls from sleep.

I'll never be a lap dog, licking dirty feet,

A sleek dog, a meek dog, cringing for my meat,

Not for me the fireside, the well-filled plate,

But shut door, and sharp stone, and cuff and kick and hate.

Not for me the other dogs, running by my side,

Some have run a short while, but none of them would bide,

Oh, mine is still the lone trail, the hard trail, the best,

Wide wind, and wild stars, and hunger of the quest!



The poetry of earth is never dead:

When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,

And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run

From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead:

That is the Grasshopper's - he takes the lead

In summer luxury, - he has never done

With his delights; for when tired out with fun

He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.

The poetry of earth is ceasing never:

On a lone winter evening, when the frost

Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills

The Cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever,

And seems to one in drowsiness half lost,

The Grasshopper's among some grassy hills.

Thursday, November 15, 2007

ALL IS VANITY by Charles Allan Gilbert

I love this painting. Can you see the optical illusion? Charles Allan Gilbert was 18 years old when he created this.

Wednesday, November 14, 2007

WAKING by Katharine Pyle

I dreamed I lay in a little gray boat;
The sail above was gray;
Out, out to sea from dreamland shore
I was drifting and drifting away.

The dreamland shore was growing dim,
Though I strained my eyes to see;
And the dream-child, too, was fading away
Who had played all night with me.

The dream-child waved a shadowy hand,
And wept to see me go.
"Farewell, farewell, ," I heard a cry,
"You are going to wake, I know."

And then I saw the shore no more-
Thee were only the wind and me,
And the little gray boat, and the lonely sky,
And the soundless dreamland sea.

My boat ran up on a smooth white beach,
And faded away like smoke,
And the beach was my own little nursery bed,
And I opened my eyes and woke.

So often now when I'm going to sleep,
I wish I could find once more,
The place where the little gray boat is moored
And the dream-child plays on the shore.

But in dreamland none can choose their way,
Or find their friends again;
And the little dream-child by the dreamland sea
Will wait for me in vain.