WTmerryF? Again.
Finding An Inchworm On A Rainy Sunday
(with apologies to Robert Frost)
Whose blade of grass is this, I know
His house is past the puddle, though
He will not see me running by
In my attempt to reach the sky
My aphid steed must think it odd
To halt him nowhere near the sod
Between the earth and clear blue sky
Of course he cannot ask me why
He flips antennae back to me
And quivers, seeing how far are we
From the safety of the dirt
(He’s terrified he might be hurt)
I look up; there’s no-one ‘round
I’m hoping that we won’t be found
My steed and I begin to weep:
We’ve millimeters more to creep.
Written in high school as part of an assignment intended to keep me out of trouble in Creative Writing class while everyone caught up to me. I may have been one of the top providers of hope to my English teachers in those days, but that just proves their standards weren't exactly top shelf.
When You are Old
W. B. Yeats
When you are old and gray and full of sleep
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true;
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face.
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead,
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
(with apologies to Robert Frost)
Whose blade of grass is this, I know
His house is past the puddle, though
He will not see me running by
In my attempt to reach the sky
My aphid steed must think it odd
To halt him nowhere near the sod
Between the earth and clear blue sky
Of course he cannot ask me why
He flips antennae back to me
And quivers, seeing how far are we
From the safety of the dirt
(He’s terrified he might be hurt)
I look up; there’s no-one ‘round
I’m hoping that we won’t be found
My steed and I begin to weep:
We’ve millimeters more to creep.
Written in high school as part of an assignment intended to keep me out of trouble in Creative Writing class while everyone caught up to me. I may have been one of the top providers of hope to my English teachers in those days, but that just proves their standards weren't exactly top shelf.
When You are Old
W. B. Yeats
When you are old and gray and full of sleep
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true;
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face.
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead,
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.