Poems

Are you the new person drawn toward me?
To begin with take warning, I am surely far
     from what you supose;
Do you supose you will find in me your ideal?
Do you think it so easy to have me become
     your lover?
Do you think the friendship of me would be
     unalloy'd satisfactioned?
Do you think I am trusty and faithful?
Do you see no further than this facade, this
     smooth and tollerant manner of me?
Do you suppose yourself advancing on real
     ground toward a real heroic woman?
Have you no thought O dreamer that it may
     be all maya, illusion?

Walt Whitman

The life of a book

The life of a book is not divine,
Faded pages and tatted spine.
Dog-earred corners adn chocolate
smeared pages,
The collection of dust that has piled up
for ages
Stuck in a corner, with
no where to go,
The cold feel of wood
is the only one I know,
People forget me, "It's a tragedy,"
they say,
And they praise the insight of the book of
the day.
So I am left alone in my worn little nook,
Yes, its a sad life- the life of a book.

Dawn Rudling

The Falling Star

I saw a star slide down the sky,
Blinging the north as it went by,
Too burning and too quick to hold,
Too lovely to be bought or sold,
Good only to make wishes on,
And then forever to be gone.

Sara Teasdale

Our Last Day

Our very last day is drawing near.
The final say of our senior year.
A time to laugh, a time to cry,
But never a time to say good-bye.
It seems like only yesterday,
We went on our first date.
Do you remember what our parents
said when we were late.
The very next day our friends
were all curious
to see if our parents were furious.
Our friends were always there
to get us through the day.
And somehow they always knew,
the right things to do or say.
Now the day has come,
The day is finally here.
We always thought we couldn't wait
But now were all in tears,
Because we want just one more day
To tell our friends good-bye.
It could be a while before
We see then again
and we can't help but cry.
We're nto completely sure of
what to do or say
but if we had a wish,
we'd wish for another day.

Diana Stewart
a poem written for our senior year in high school.