One Art - Elizabeth Bishop

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster,

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three beloved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

-- Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) a disaster.

The Lamb by William Blake

The Lamb

Little lamb, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee,
Gave thee life, and bid thee feed
By the stream and o'er the mead;
Gave thee clothing of delight,
Softest clothing, woolly, bright;
Gave thee such a tender voice,
Making all the vales rejoice? 
    Little lamb, who made thee? 
    Dost thou know who made thee?

    Little lamb, I'll tell thee;
    Little lamb, I'll tell thee:
He is called by thy name,
For He calls Himself a Lamb.
He is meek, and He is mild,
He became a little child.
I a child, and thou a lamb,
We are called by His name. 
    Little lamb, God bless thee! 
    Little lamb, God bless thee!

The Charge of the Light Brigade by by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Half a league, half a league, Half a league onward, All in the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. `Forward, the Light Brigade! Charge for the guns!' he said: Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred.II. `Forward, the Light Brigade!' Was there a man dismay'd? Not tho' the soldier knew Some one had blunder'd: Their's not to make reply, Their's not to reason why, Their's but to do and die: Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred.III Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon in front of them Volley'd and thunder'd; Storm'd at with shot and shell, Boldly they rode and well, Into the jaws of Death, Into the mouth of Hell Rode the six hundred.IV Flash'd all their sabres bare, Flash'd as they turn'd in air Sabring the gunners there, Charging an army, while All the world wonder'd: Plunged in the battery-smoke Right thro' the line they broke; Cossack and Russian Reel'd from the sabre-stroke Shatter'd and sunder'd. Then they rode back, but not Not the six hundred.V Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon behind them Volley'd and thunder'd; Storm'd at with shot and shell, While horse and hero fell, They that had fought so well Came thro' the jaws of Death, Back from the mouth of Hell, All that was left of them, Left of six hundred.VI When can their glory fade? O the wild charge they made! All the world wonder'd. Honour the charge they made! Honour the Light Brigade, Noble six hundred!

Dreamland by Christina Rossetti

Where sunless rivers weep
Their waves into the deep,
She sleeps a charmed sleep:
Awake her not.
Led by a single star,
She came from very far
To seek where shadows are
Her pleasant lot.

She left the rosy morn,
She left the fields of corn,
For twilight cold and lorn
And water springs.
Through sleep, as through a veil,
She sees the sky look pale,
And hears the nightingale
That sadly sings.

Rest, rest, a perfect rest
Shed over brow and breast;
Her face is toward the west,
The purple land.
She cannot see the grain
Ripening on hill and plain;
She cannot feel the rain
Upon her hand.

Rest, rest, for evermore
Upon a mossy shore;
Rest, rest at the heart's core
Till time shall cease:
Sleep that no pain shall wake;
Night that no morn shall break
Till joy shall overtake
Her perfect peace.

Aubrey Thomas De Vere - Sad is our youth, for it is ever going

Sad is our youth, for it is ever going, 

Crumbling away beneath our very feet; 

Sad is our life, for onward it is flowing 

In current unperceived, because so fleet; 

Sad are our hopes, for they were sweet in sowing,— 

But tares, self-sown, have overtopped the wheat; 

Sad are our joys, for they were sweet in blowing, 

And still, O, still their dying breath is sweet;

And sweet is youth, although it hath bereft us 

Of that which made our childhood sweeter still; 

And sweet is middle life, for it hath left us 

A nearer good to cure an older ill; 

And sweet are all things, when we learn to prize them, 

Not for their sake, but His who grants them or denies them!

My Nose by Gabriel Liebermann

I never chose my nose to be,
a statement of longevity.
Its grandeur lies within its size,
and the way it looms between my eyes;
and the way it leads me from meal to meal.
Some wonder if the bulbous thing
is mine. And is it really real?

From my childhood days I wore it,
like a crown my mom adored it.
My father who had a big one too,
said son, its something to get used to;
and if children taunt you, dont forget,
there are bigger things you will regret,
and your nose will grow much bigger yet.

So big in fact that when I sneeze,
the trees around me lose their leaves.
It precedes me into any room,
but it has always made the ladies swoon.
People often say to I,
smaller noses we have seen,
on elephants and rhinoceri!

Me and my nose are stuck together,
weather for worse or maybe better.
It gives my face a regal look;
and helps turn pages in this book.
And when they put me in a basket,
tell the one that builds my casket:
to cut a hole on top so I,
can smell the flowers when I die...

A Girl by Ezra Pound

The tree has entered my hands,
The sap has ascended my arms,
The tree has grown in my breast-
Downward,
The branches grow out of me, like arms.

Tree you are,
Moss you are,
You are violets with wind above them.
A child - so high - you are,
And all this is folly to the world.

A Child's Fear by Juanita Nena RudonBeeke

Night time has come
To bed she will go
Her head she’ll lay down
Her eyes will not close

Her hands clasped in prayer
For a night without fear
For when her eyes are shut
An evil presence will appear

As he watches over her
His eyes so striking red
Her eyes still are open
Her body affixed to the bed

She tries to scream - no sound she’ll make
She tries to stir - no movement came
And all this time he stares at her
His presence here - an ungodly fear

It’s now half five
The church bell rings
She now can rise
And sounds she’ll make

Her hands in prayer while she offer thanks
She now can close her eyes
For tonight she must be prepared
For she know again he'll appear...

William Blake- The Tyger

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright, In the forests of the night; What immortal hand or eye, Could frame thy fearful symmetry? In what distant deeps or skies. Burnt the fire of thine eyes? On what wings dare he aspire? What the hand, dare sieze the fire? And what shoulder, & what art, Could twist the sinews of thy heart? And when thy heart began to beat; What dread hand? & what dread feet? What the hammer? what the chain? In what furnace was thy brain? What the anvil? what dread grasp, Dare its deadly terrors clasp? When the stars threw down their spears And water'd heaven with their tears: Did he smile his work to see? Did he who made the Lamb make thee? Tyger! Tyger! burning bright, In the forests of the night: What immortal hand or eye, Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

The Furthest Distance in the world. (By Rabindranath Tagore?)

The furthest distance in the world
Is not between life and death
But when I stand in front of you
Yet you don't know that I love you.

The furthest distance in the world
Is not when I stand in front of you
Yet you can't see my love
But when undoubtedly knowing the love from both
Yet cannot
Be together.

The furthest distance in the world
Is not being apart while being in love
But when plainly can not resist the yearning
Yet pretending You have never been in my heart.

The furthest distance in the world
Is not
But using one's indifferent heart
To dig an uncrossable river
For the one who loves you.