though not original
-Richard Scarry's Mother Goose.
The world is so full
of a number of things
I'm sure we should all
be as happy as kings.
-Robert Louis Stevenson
Footprints on the Sands of Time
Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime.
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time.
Footprints that perhaps another,
Sailing o're life's solemn main
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother
Seeing, shall take heart again.
Let us, then, be up and doing
With a heart for any fate
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labore and to wait.
-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
'Twas brillig, and the slothy toves
did gyre and gimble in the wabe
All mimsy and gimble were the borogoves
And the momeraths 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 maxome foe he sought-
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood a while in thought.
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.
"Has thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Calloh! Calloy!"
He chortled in his joy.
"Twas brillig, and the slothy troves
did gyre and gimble in the wabe
All mimsy were the borogoves
And the momeraths outgrabe.
-Lewis Carroll
With good cheer,
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All Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair--
The bees are stirring--birds are on the wing--
And Winter slumbering in the open air,
Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring!
And I the while, the sole unbusy thing,
Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing.
Yet well I ken the banks where amaranths blow,
Bloom, o ye amaranths! bloom for whom ye may,
For me ye bloom not! Glide, rich streams, away!
With lips unbrightened, wreathless brow, I stroll
And would you learn the spells that drowse my soul?
Work without Hope draws nectar in a sieve,
And Hope without an object can not live.
-Samuel Taylor Coleridge
To M.H.Our walk was far among the ancient trees:
There was no road, nor any woodman's path;
but a thick umbrage--checking the wild growth
Of weed and sapling, along soft green turf
Beneath the branches--of itself had made
A track, that brought us to a slip of lawn,
And a small bed of water in the woods.
All round this pool both flocks and herds might drink
On its firm margin, even as from a well,
Or some stone-basin which the herdsman's hand
Had shaped for their refreshment; nor did sun,
Or wind from any quarter, ever come,
But as a blessing to this calm recess,
This glade of water and this one green field.
The spot was made by Nature for herself
The travellers know it not, and 'twill remain
Unknown to them; but it is beautiful;
And if a man should plant his cottage near,
Ahould sleep beneath the shelter of its trees,
And blend its waters with his daily meal,
He would so love it, that in his death-hour
Its image would survive among his thoughts:
And therefore, my sweet MARY, this still Nook,
With all its beeches, we have named from You!
-William Wordsworth
Full of life, now, compact, visible,
I, forty years old the Eighty-third Year of The States,
To one a century hence, or any number of centuries hence,
To you, yet unborn, these seeking you.
When you read these, I, that was visible, am become invisible;
Now it is you, compact, visible, realizing my poems, seeking me,
Fancying how happy you were, if I could be with you, and become your comrade;
Be it as if I were with you. (Be not too certain but I am now with you.)
-Walt Whitman Under my window, a clean rasping sound By G--, the old man could handle a spade, But I've no spade to follow men like them. Between my finger and my thumb -Seamus Heaney While I was fearing it, it came, -Emily Dickinson Happy is the man, whose wish and care Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread, Blest who can unconcernedly find Sound asleep by night; study and ease Thus let me live, unseen, unknown; -Alexander Pope
I envy not in any moods I envy not the beast that takes Nor, what may count itself as blest, I hold it true, whate'er befall; -Alfred, Lord Tennyson If I can stop one heart from breaking, -Emily Dickenson As an unperfect actor on a stage, -William Shakespeare
All that is gold does not glitter, From the ashes a fire shall be woken -J.R.R.Tolkein
When the spade sinks into the gravelly ground:
My father, digging...
Just like his old man...
The squat pen rests
I'll dig with it.
But came with less of fear,
Because that fearing it so long
Had almost made it dear.
There is a fitting a dismay,
A fitting a dispair
'Tis harder knowing it is due,
Than knowing it is here.
The trying on the utmost,
The morning it is new
Is terribler than wearing it
A whole existence through.
A few paternal acres bound,
Content to breathe his native air
In his own ground.
Whose flocks supply him with attire;
Whose trees in summer yeild him shade,
In winter, fire.
Hours, days and years slide soft away
In health of body, peace of mind;
Quiet by day.
Together mixed, sweet recreation,
and innocence, which most does please
with meditation.
Thus unlamented let me die;
Steal from the world, and not a stone
Tell where I lie.
The captive void of noble rage,
The linnet born within the cage,
That never knew the summer woods:
this license in the field of time,
Unfetter'd by the sense of crime,
To whom a conscience never wakes;
The heart that never plighted troth
But stagnates in the weeds of sloth,
Nor any want-begotten rest.
I feel it, when I sorrow most;
'Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.
I shall not live in vain:
If I can ease one life the aching,
Or cool one pain,
Or help one fainting robin
Unto his nest again,
I shall no live in vain.
Who with his fear is put besides his part,
Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage,
Whose strength's abundance weakens his own heart;
So I for fear of trust forget to say
The perfect ceremony of love's rite,
And in mh own love's strength seem to decay,
O'ercharged with burthen of my own love's might.
O let my books be then the eloquence
And dumb presagers of my speaking breast,
Who plead for love and look for recompense
More than that tongue that more hath more expressed.
O learn to read what silent love hath writ
To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit.
Not all those who wander are lost;
The old that is strong does not wither,
Deep roots are not reached by frost.
A light from the shadows shall spring;
Renewed shall be blade that was broken
The crown-less again shall be king.
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