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Poems
Apr 17, 2024 14:36:39 GMT -5
Post by The Perilous Dreamer on Apr 17, 2024 14:36:39 GMT -5
To an Athlete Dying Young by A.E. Housman
The time you won your town the race We chaired you through the market-place; Man and boy stood cheering by, And home we brought you shoulder-high.
To-day, the road all runners come, Shoulder-high we bring you home, And set you at your threshold down, Townsman of a stiller town.
Smart lad, to slip betimes away From fields where glory does not stay, And early though the laurel grows It withers quicker than the rose.
Eyes the shady night has shut Cannot see the record cut, And silence sounds no worse than cheers After earth has stopped the ears:
Now you will not swell the rout Of lads that wore their honours out, Runners whom renown outran And the name died before the man.
So set, before its echoes fade, The fleet foot on the sill of shade, And hold to the low lintel up The still-defended challenge-cup.
And round that early-laurelled head Will flock to gaze the strengthless dead, And find unwithered on its curls The garland briefer than a girl's.
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Poems
Apr 17, 2024 14:37:22 GMT -5
Post by The Perilous Dreamer on Apr 17, 2024 14:37:22 GMT -5
Ash-Wednesday, II by T.S. Eliot
Lady, three white leopards sat under a juniper-tree In the cool of the day, having fed to satiety On my legs my heart my liver and that which had been contained In the hollow round of my skull. And God said Shall these bones live? shall these Bones live? And that which had been contained In the bones (which were already dry) said chirping: Because of the goodness of this Lady And because of her loveliness, and because She honours the Virgin in meditation, We shine with brightness. And I who am here dissembled Proffer my deeds to oblivion, and my love To the posterity of the desert and the fruit of the gourd. It is this which recovers My guts the strings of my eyes and the indigestible portions Which the leopards reject. The Lady is withdrawn In a white gown, to contemplation, in a white gown. Let the whiteness of bones atone to forgetfulness. There is no life in them. As I am forgotten And would be forgotten, so I would forget Thus devoted, concentrated in purpose. And God said Prophesy to the wind, to the wind only for only The wind will listen. And the bones sang chirping With the burden of the grasshopper, saying
Lady of silences Calm and distressed Torn and most whole Rose of memory Rose of forgetfulness Exhausted and life-giving Worried reposeful The single Rose Is now the Garden Where all loves end Terminate torment Of love unsatisfied The greater torment Of love satisfied End of the endless Journey to no end Conclusion of all that Is inconclusible Speech without word and Word of no speech Grace to the Mother For the Garden Where all love ends.
Under a juniper-tree the bones sang, scattered and shining We are glad to be scattered, we did little good to each other, Under a tree in the cool of the day, with the blessing of sand, Forgetting themselves and each other, united In the quiet of the desert. This is the land which ye Shall divide by lot. And neither division nor unity Matters. This is the land. We have our inheritance.
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Poems
Apr 17, 2024 14:37:41 GMT -5
Post by The Perilous Dreamer on Apr 17, 2024 14:37:41 GMT -5
The Galway Shawl traditional
In Oranmore in the County Galway One pleasant evening in the month of May I spied a damsel she was young and handsome Her beauty fairly took my breath away.
She wore no diamonds or costly jewels, No paint no powder, no none at all; She wore a bonnet with a ribbon on it, And around her shoulders was the Galway shawl.
As we kept on walking, she kept on talking, Till her father’s cottage came into view. Said she "Come in, sir, and meet my father, And for to please him play "The Foggy Dew."
I played "The Blackbird" and "The Stack of Barley," "Rodney’s Glory" and "The Foggy Dew." She sang each note like an Irish linnet, And the tears flowed in her eyes of blue.
'Twas early, early, all in the morning, I hit the road for old Donegal. Said she, "Goodbye, sir," as she cried and kissed me, And my heart remained with the Galway shawl.
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Poems
Apr 17, 2024 14:38:12 GMT -5
Post by The Perilous Dreamer on Apr 17, 2024 14:38:12 GMT -5
Ash-Wednesday III by T.S. Eliot
At the first turning of the second stair I turned and saw below The same shape twisted on the banister Under the vapour in the fetid air Struggling with the devil of the stairs who wears The deceitful face of hope and of despair.
At the second turning of the second stair I left them twisting, turning below; There were no more faces and the stair was dark, Damp, jagged, like an old man's mouth drivelling, beyond repair, Or the toothed gullet of an aged shark.
At the first turning of the third stair Was a slotted window bellied like the figs's fruit And beyond the hawthorn blossom and a pasture scene The broadbacked figure drest in blue and green Enchanted the maytime with an antique flute. Blown hair is sweet, brown hair over the mouth blown, Lilac and brown hair; Distraction, music of the flute, stops and steps of the mind over the third stair, Fading, fading; strength beyond hope and despair Climbing the third stair.
Lord, I am not worthy Lord, I am not worthy but speak the word only.
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Poems
Apr 17, 2024 14:40:14 GMT -5
Post by The Perilous Dreamer on Apr 17, 2024 14:40:14 GMT -5
Bay Combe by G.K. Chesterton
With leaves below and leaves above, And groping under tree and tree, I found the home of my true love, Who is a wandering home for me.
Who, lost in ruined worlds aloof, Bore the dread dove wings like a roof; Who, past the last lost stars of space, Carried the fire-light on her face.
Who, passing as in idle hours, Tamed the wild weeds to garden flowers; Stroked the strange whirlwind's whirring wings, And made the comets homely things.
Where she went by upon her way The dark was dearer than the day; Where she paused in heaven or hell, The whole world's tale had ended well.
With leaves below and leaves above, And groping under tree and tree, I found the home of my true love, Who is a wandering home for me.
Where she was flung, above, beneath, By the rude dance of life and death, Grow she at Gotham -- die at Rome, Between the pine trees is her home.
In some strange town, some silver morn, She may have wandered to be born; Stopped at some motley crowd impressed, And called them kinsfolk for a jest.
If we again in goodness thrive, And the dead saints become alive, Then pedants bald and parchments brown May claim her blood for London town.
But leaves below and leaves above, And groping under tree and tree, I found the home of my true love, Who is a wandering home for me.
The great gravestone she may pass by, And without noticing, may die; The streets of silver Heaven may tread, With her grey awful eyes unfed.
The city of great peace in pain May pass, until she find again This little house of holm and fir God built before the stars for her.
Here in the fallen leaves is furled Her secret centre of the world. We sit and feel in dusk and dun The stars swing round us like a sun.
For leaves below and leaves above, And groping under tree and tree, I found the home of my true love, Who is a wandering home for me.
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Poems
Apr 17, 2024 14:40:33 GMT -5
Post by The Perilous Dreamer on Apr 17, 2024 14:40:33 GMT -5
Hear the Voice of the Bard by William Blake
Hear the voice of the Bard! Who present, past, and future sees; Whose ears have heard The Holy Word, That walked among the ancient trees,
Calling the lapsed soul, And weeping in the evening dew; That might control The starry pole, And fallen, fallen, light renew!
"O Earth, O Earth, return! Arise from out the dewy grass; Night is worn, And the morn Rises from the slumberous mass.
"Turn away no more; Why wilt thou turn away? The starry floor, The watery shore, Is given thee till the break of day."
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Poems
Apr 17, 2024 14:44:16 GMT -5
Post by The Perilous Dreamer on Apr 17, 2024 14:44:16 GMT -5
May Magnificat by Gerard Manley Hopkins
May is Mary’s month, and I Muse at that and wonder why: Her feasts follow reason, Dated due to season—
Candlemas, Lady Day; But the Lady Month, May, Why fasten that upon her, With a feasting in her honour?
Is it only its being brighter Than the most are must delight her? Is it opportunest And flowers finds soonest?
Ask of her, the mighty mother: Her reply puts this other Question: What is Spring?— Growth in every thing—
Flesh and fleece, fur and feather, Grass and greenworld all together; Star-eyed strawberry-breasted Throstle above her nested
Cluster of bugle blue eggs thin Forms and warms the life within; And bird and blossom swell In sod or sheath or shell.
All things rising, all things sizing Mary sees, sympathising With that world of good, Nature’s motherhood.
Their magnifying of each its kind With delight calls to mind How she did in her stored Magnify the Lord.
Well but there was more than this: Spring’s universal bliss Much, had much to say To offering Mary May.
When drop-of-blood-and-foam-dapple Bloom lights the orchard-apple And thicket and thorp are merry With silver-surfèd cherry
And azuring-over greybell makes Wood banks and brakes wash wet like lakes And magic cuckoocall Caps, clears, and clinches all—
This ecstasy all through mothering earth Tells Mary her mirth till Christ’s birth To remember and exultation In God who was her salvation.
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Poems
Apr 17, 2024 14:44:38 GMT -5
Post by The Perilous Dreamer on Apr 17, 2024 14:44:38 GMT -5
Youth and Love, I by Robert Louis Stevenson
Once only by the garden gate Our lips we joined and parted. I must fulfil an empty fate And travel the uncharted.
Hail and farewell! I must arise, Leave here the fatted cattle, And paint on foreign lands and skies My Odyssey of battle.
The untented Kosmos my abode, I pass, a wilful stranger: My mistress still the open road And the bright eyes of danger.
Come ill or well, the cross, the crown, The rainbow or the thunder, I fling my soul and body down For God to plough them under.
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Poems
Apr 17, 2024 14:45:00 GMT -5
Post by The Perilous Dreamer on Apr 17, 2024 14:45:00 GMT -5
Afternoon on a Hill by Edna St. Vincent Millay
I will be the gladdest thing Under the sun! I will touch a hundred flowers And not pick one.
I will look at cliffs and clouds With quiet eyes, Watch the wind bow down the grass, And the grass rise.
And when lights begin to show Up from the town, I will mark which must be mine, And then start down!
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Poems
Apr 17, 2024 14:45:16 GMT -5
Post by The Perilous Dreamer on Apr 17, 2024 14:45:16 GMT -5
Frances by G.K. Chesterton
God made thee mightily, my love, He stretched His hands out of His rest And lit the star of east and west, Brooding o'er darkness like a dove God made thee mightily, my love.
God made thee patiently, my sweet, Out of all stars He chose a star, He made it red with sunset bar And green with greeting for thy feet. God made thee mightily, my sweet.
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Poems
Apr 17, 2024 14:45:34 GMT -5
Post by The Perilous Dreamer on Apr 17, 2024 14:45:34 GMT -5
The Kingdom of God by Francis Thompson
O World invisible, we view thee, O world intangible, we touch thee, O world unknowable, we know thee, Inapprehensible, we clutch thee!
Does the fish soar to find the ocean, The eagle plunge to find the air— That we ask of the stars in motion If they have rumour of thee there?
Not where the wheeling systems darken, And our benumbed conceiving soars!— The drift of pinions, would we hearken, Beats at our own clay-shuttered doors.
The angels keep their ancient places;— Turn but a stone, and start a wing! 'Tis ye, 'tis your estrangèd faces, That miss the many-splendoured thing.
But (when so sad thou canst not sadder) Cry;—and upon thy so sore loss Shall shine the traffic of Jacob’s ladder Pitched betwixt Heaven and Charing Cross.
Yea, in the night, my Soul, my daughter, Cry,—clinging Heaven by the hems; And lo, Christ walking on the water Not of Gennesareth, but Thames!
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Poems
Apr 17, 2024 14:45:57 GMT -5
Post by The Perilous Dreamer on Apr 17, 2024 14:45:57 GMT -5
Mr. Ford by G.K. Chesterton
Though Mr. Ford can quite afford To sell his motors cheap I can't afford a Mr. Ford He costs too much to keep, He will not play with wooden toys They must be made of steel, I never knew him bowl a hoop Unless it was a wheel.
Suppose the masses profit by The Mass-production plan I do not want to be a mass I thought I was a man. I can't afford a millionaire However pure and new I keep a wife, and I keep a house I keep a temper too.
Though Mr. Ford can quite afford To pay his workmen well I can't afford a Mr. Ford The price would be a sell, I'd have to pawn the village pub And scrap the village forcge And let the Peace Ship standardise The standard of St. George.
I can't afford a Mr. Ford My plot of peas and beans Won't grow sufficient greenbacks But just sufficient greens; Nor would I lose it all to toil In servitude and strain Till I had made a plutocrat To pay me back again.
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Poems
Apr 17, 2024 15:38:05 GMT -5
Post by The Perilous Dreamer on Apr 17, 2024 15:38:05 GMT -5
Sociological Triolets by G.K. Chesterton
(Written on first looking into Mr. Bellamy's "Looking Backwards"; or "Much have I travelled in these Realms of Gold")
I
The Collectivist State Is a prig and a bandit. I despise and I hate The Collectivist State; It may be My Fate, But I'm damned if I'll stand it! The Collectivist State Is a prig and a bandit.
II
The Capitalist State Is a garden of roses; It's been proved in debate --The Capitalist State-- But, strange to relate, We are holding our noses, The Capitalist State Is a Garden of Roses.
III
The Communist State Is all mixed up together. Where we participate --The Communist State-- There can be no hate-- (But we all hate the weather) The Communist State Is all mixed up together.
IV
The Syndical State Raises awful emotion In the Wise and the Great, "The Syndical State". What the words indicate They haven't a notion. The Syndical State Raises awful emotion.
V
The Anarchis.t State Is a flat contradiction. So let Tolstoy narrate The Anarchis.t State-- His powers, which were great, Were more suited to fiction; The Anarchis.t State Is a flat contradiction.
VI
The Servile (ow!) State Is like this, only worse, Degradation's its fate-- The Servile (oo!) State It's debased, desecrate --And it don't care a curse-- The Servile (ugh!) State Is like this, only worse.
VII
The Distributive State You'd like if you'd met it But you buy at a hard rate The Distributive State. It means Early and Late --And don't you forget it-- The Distributive State You'd like if you'd met it.
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Poems
Apr 17, 2024 15:39:38 GMT -5
Post by The Perilous Dreamer on Apr 17, 2024 15:39:38 GMT -5
G K Chesterton
I wish I were a jelly fish That cannot fall downstairs: Of all the things I wish to wish I wish I were a jelly fish That hasn't any cares, And doesn't even have to wish "I wish I were a jelly fish That cannot fall downstairs."
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Poems
Apr 17, 2024 15:40:01 GMT -5
Post by The Perilous Dreamer on Apr 17, 2024 15:40:01 GMT -5
Nursery Rhymes No. 1: Property by G.K. Chesterton
Little Bo-Peep has lost her Sheep But hopes that mutton will soon be cheap When so many cooks are nothing loth For the task of spoiling the mutton-broth. And the lords of the Meat Trust, she has been told, Have cornered mutton and "got it cold" Through experts, each guaranteed as fit For the duty of making a hash of it, In mutton cutlets and mutton pies She endeavours in vain to recognise The face of a single personal pet . . . . . . But Woolen Goods Will Be Cheaper Yet In shirts and shapes of every size For pulling the wool over mortal eyes; And Bradford mills are a lovely sight Rows and rows of them, brisk and bright . . . . . . But somehow or other they never recall The days she walked on the mountain wall Where the Shepherd Kings of an elder sky Hoary as hills on the hills trailed by And something went with her march along Of David's valour and Virgil's song When her voice was a clarion calling a clan And her crook was a sceptre, the sceptre of man, To gather her flock where the eagles fly Or lay down her life when the wolf went by.
Little Bo-Peep is paid in full Stuffed with mutton and choked in wool But little Bo-Peep has lost her Sheep And cannot do anything else but weep.
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Poems
Apr 17, 2024 15:40:17 GMT -5
Post by The Perilous Dreamer on Apr 17, 2024 15:40:17 GMT -5
Who Goes Home? by G.K. Chesterton
In the city set upon slime and loam They cry in their parliament 'Who goes home?' And there comes no answer in arch or dome, For none in the city of graves goes home. Yet these shall perish and undersand, For God has pity on this great land.
Men that are men again; who goes home? Tocsin and trumpter! Who goes home? For there's blood on the field and blood on the foam And blood on the body when Man goes home. And a voice valedictory. . . . Who is for Victory? Who is for Liberty? Who goes home?
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Poems
Apr 17, 2024 15:40:33 GMT -5
Post by The Perilous Dreamer on Apr 17, 2024 15:40:33 GMT -5
There Is a Heart by G. K. Chesterton
There is a heart within a distant town Who loves me more than treasure or renown Think you it strange and wear it as a crown.
Is not the marvel here; that since the kiss And dizzy glories of that blinding bliss One grief has ever touched me after this.
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Poems
Apr 17, 2024 15:40:51 GMT -5
Post by The Perilous Dreamer on Apr 17, 2024 15:40:51 GMT -5
The Invisible by G. K. Chesterton
God knows I would not blame you, dear, I do not know what thing am I How hard a burden on your back, How stale an eyesore to your eye.
I never knew myself at all, I trod the mystic woods, but ne'er Came to the mystic well or saw What monster might be mirrored there.
I saw all faces save my own-- How should I see it now, who rise, Stand between Heaven and Earth and Hell And only see the brave blue eyes.
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Poems
Apr 17, 2024 15:41:08 GMT -5
Post by The Perilous Dreamer on Apr 17, 2024 15:41:08 GMT -5
In the Valley of Cauteretz by Alfred, Lord Tennyson
All along the valley, stream that flashest white, Deepening thy voice with the deepening of the night, All along the valley, where thy waters flow, I walked with one I loved two and thirty years ago. All along the valley while I walked to-day, The two and thirty years were a mist that rolls away; For all along the valley, down thy rocky bed, Thy living voice to me was as the voice of the dead, And all along the valley, by rock and cave and tree, The voice of the dead was a living voice to me.
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Poems
Apr 17, 2024 15:42:25 GMT -5
Post by The Perilous Dreamer on Apr 17, 2024 15:42:25 GMT -5
Triolets by G. K. Chesterton
"A Comforting Reflection"
You might not be in love with me If I were better than I am. I might have ten arms like a tree (You might not be in love with me) And have all colours like the sea. Have wings, or horns just like a ram You might not be in love with me If I were better than I am.
"My Experiment in Greek Philosophy Recounted"
When I tried to know myself I discovered I was gone. Loves and toils and books on shelf When I tried to know myself Hats and sticks and wood and delf Were no longer I and one. When I tried to know myself I discovered I was gone.
"Thoughts on the Offer of Being a Fish"
If I were a fish I should Miss occasional luxury Such as climbing in the wood (If I were a fish I should) Church-going is also good Mostly I should miss the sea If I were a fish I should Miss occasional luxury.
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Poems
Apr 17, 2024 15:43:51 GMT -5
Post by The Perilous Dreamer on Apr 17, 2024 15:43:51 GMT -5
The Arrow and the Song I shot an arrow into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where; For, so swiftly it flew, the sight Could not follow it in its flight. I breathed a song into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where; For who has sight so keen and strong That it can follow the flight of song? Long, long afterward, in an oak I found the arrow, still unbroke; And the song, from beginning to end, I found again in the heart of a friend. HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.
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Poems
Apr 17, 2024 15:44:07 GMT -5
Post by The Perilous Dreamer on Apr 17, 2024 15:44:07 GMT -5
The Babie Nae shoon to hide her tiny taes, Nae stockin’ on her feet; Her supple ankles white as snaw, Or early blossoms sweet. Her simple dress o’ sprinkled pink, Her double, dimplit chin, Her puckered lips, and baumy mou’, With na ane tooth within. Her een sae like her mither’s een, Twa gentle, liquid things; Her face is like an angel’s face: We’re glad she has nae wings. JEREMIAH EAMES RANKIN.
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Poems
Apr 17, 2024 15:44:19 GMT -5
Post by The Perilous Dreamer on Apr 17, 2024 15:44:19 GMT -5
Let Dogs Delight to Bark and Bite Let dogs delight to bark and bite, For God hath made them so; Let bears and lions growl and fight, For ’tis their nature too.
But, children, you should never let Such angry passions rise; Your little hands were never made To tear each other’s eyes. ISAAC WATTS.
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Poems
Apr 17, 2024 15:45:01 GMT -5
Post by The Perilous Dreamer on Apr 17, 2024 15:45:01 GMT -5
Little Things Little drops of water, Little grains of sand, Make the mighty ocean And the pleasant land. Thus the little minutes, Humble though they be, Make the mighty ages Of eternity. EBENEZER COBHAM BREWER.
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Poems
Apr 17, 2024 15:45:31 GMT -5
Post by The Perilous Dreamer on Apr 17, 2024 15:45:31 GMT -5
He Prayeth Best Farewell, farewell! but this I tell To thee, thou Wedding-Guest! He prayeth well who loveth well Both man and bird and beast.
He prayeth best who loveth best All things, both great and small: For the dear God who loveth us, He made and loveth all. SAMUEL T. COLERIDGE.
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Poems
Apr 17, 2024 15:46:44 GMT -5
Post by The Perilous Dreamer on Apr 17, 2024 15:46:44 GMT -5
Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star Twinkle, twinkle, little star! How I wonder what you are, Up above the world so high, Like a diamond in the sky. When the glorious sun is set, When the grass with dew is wet, Then you show your little light, Twinkle, twinkle all the night. In the dark-blue sky you keep, And often through my curtains peep, For you never shut your eye, Till the sun is in the sky. As your bright and tiny spark Guides the traveller in the dark, Though I know not what you are, Twinkle, twinkle, little star!
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Poems
Apr 17, 2024 15:47:00 GMT -5
Post by The Perilous Dreamer on Apr 17, 2024 15:47:00 GMT -5
Pippa The year’s at the spring, The day’s at the morn; Morning’s at seven; The hillside’s dew pearled; The lark’s on the wing; The snail’s on the thorn; God’s in His heaven— All’s right with the world! ROBERT BROWNING
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Poems
Apr 17, 2024 15:47:23 GMT -5
Post by The Perilous Dreamer on Apr 17, 2024 15:47:23 GMT -5
The Days of the Month Thirty days hath September, April, June, and November; February has twenty-eight alone. All the rest have thirty-one, Excepting leap-year—that’s the time When February’s days are twenty-nine. OLD SONG.
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Poems
Apr 17, 2024 15:47:43 GMT -5
Post by The Perilous Dreamer on Apr 17, 2024 15:47:43 GMT -5
True Royalty There was never a Queen like Balkis, From here to the wide world’s end; But Balkis talked to a butterfly As you would talk to a friend. There was never a King like Solomon, Not since the world began; But Solomon talked to a butterfly As a man would talk to a man. She was Queen of Sabaea— And he was Asia’s Lord— But they both of ’em talked to butterflies When they took their walks abroad. RUDYARD KIPLING. (In “The Just So Stories.”)
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Poems
Apr 17, 2024 15:48:18 GMT -5
Post by The Perilous Dreamer on Apr 17, 2024 15:48:18 GMT -5
Playing Robinson Crusoe Pussy can sit by the fire and sing, Pussy can climb a tree, Or play with a silly old cork and string To ’muse herself, not me. But I like Binkie, my dog, because He knows how to behave; So, Binkie’s the same as the First Friend was, And I am the Man in the Cave. Pussy will play Man-Friday till It’s time to wet her paw And make her walk on the window-sill (For the footprint Crusoe saw); Then she fluffles her tail and mews, And scratches and won’t attend. But Binkie will play whatever I choose, And he is my true First Friend. Pussy will rub my knees with her head, Pretending she loves me hard; But the very minute I go to my bed Pussy runs out in the yard. And there she stays till the morning-light; So I know it is only pretend; But Binkie, he snores at my feet all night, And he is my Firstest Friend! RUDYARD KIPLING. (In “The Just So Stories.”)
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