| She should have died hereafter; There would have been a time for such a word. Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow Creeps in this petty pace from day to day To the last syllable of recorded time; And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Life�s but a walking shadow, a poor player, That struts and frets his hour upon the stage And then is heard no more. It is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing. William Shakespeare (1564-1616) �OUT, OUT �� The buzz-saw snarled and rattled in the yard And made dust and dropped stove-length sticks of wood, Sweet-scented stuff when the breeze drew across it. And from there those that lifted eyes could count Five mountain ranges one behind the other Under the sunset far into Vermont. And the saw snarled and rattled, snarled and rattled, As it ran light, or had to bear a load. And nothing happened; day was all but done. Call it a day, I wish they might have said To please the boy be giving him the half hour That a boy counts so much when saved from work. His sister stood beside them in her apron To tell them �Supper.� At the word, the saw As if to prove saws knew what supper meant, Leaped out at the boy�s hand, or seemed to leap � He must have given the hand. However it was, Neither refused the meeting. But the hand! The boy�s first outcry was a rueful laugh, As he sung toward them holding up the hand Half in appeal, but half as if to keep The life from spilling. Then the boy saw all � Since he was old enough to know, big boy Doing a man�s work, though a child at heart � He saw all spoiled. �Don�t let him cut my hand off � The doctor, when he comes. Don�t let him sister!� So. But the hand was gone already. The doctor put him in the dark of ether. He lay and puffed his lips out with his breath. And then � the watcher at his pulse took fright. No one believed. They listened at his heart. Little � less � nothing! -- and that ended it. No more to build on there. And they, since they Were not the one dead, turned to their affairs. Robert Frost (1874-1963) JABBERWOCKY `Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe: All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths 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 manxome foe he sought -- So rested he by the Tumtum tree, And stood awhile in thought. And, 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. "And, has thou slain the Jabberwock? Come to my arms, my beamish boy! O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!' He chortled in his joy. `Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe; All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe. Lewis Carroll (1832-1898) THAT TIME OF YEAR That time of year thou mayst in me behold When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon these boughs which shake against the cold, Bare ruined choirs where late the sweet birds sang. In me thou see�st the twilight of such day As after sunset fadeth in the west, Which by and by black night doth take away, Death�s second self, that seals up all in rest. In me thou see�st the glowing of such fire, That on the ashes of his youth doth lie As the deathbed whereon it must expire, Consumed with that which it was nourished by. This thou perceivist, which makes thy love more strong, To love that well which thou must leave ere long. William Shakespeare (1564-1616) A HANDFULL OF LIMERICKS There was an old man of Peru A decrepit old gas man named Peter Who dreamt he was eating his shoe. While hunting around for the meter, He awoke in the night Touched a leak with his light. In a terrible fright, He arose out of sight, And found it was perfectly true! And, as anyone can see by reading this, he Also destroyed the meter. A CHRISTMAS TREE Star If you are A love compassionate, You will walk with us this year. We face a glacial distance, who are here Huddld At your feet. William Burford (b. 1927) |