Epigram for Wall Street
by Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849)

I’ll tell you a plan for gaining wealth,
         Better than banking, trade or leases —
Take a bank note and fold it up,
         And then you will find your money in creases!
This wonderful plan, without danger or loss,
Keeps your cash in your hands, where nothing can trouble it;
And every time that you fold it across,
         ‘Tis as plain as the light of the day that you double it!

Views: 57

Halfway Down
by A.A. Milne (1882-1956)

Halfway down the stairs
Is a stair
Where I sit.
There isn’t any
Other stair
Quite like
It.
I’m not at the bottom,
I’m not at the top;
So this is the stair
Where
I always
Stop.

Halfway up the stairs
Isn’t up,
And isn’t down.
It isn’t in the nursery,
It isn’t in the town.
And all sorts of funny thoughts
Run round my head:
“It isn’t really
Anywhere!
It’s somewhere else
Instead!”

Views: 33

Just Think!
by Robert Service (1874-1958)

Just think! some night the stars will gleam
         Upon a cold, grey stone,
And trace a name with silver beam,
         And lo! ’twill be your own.

That night is speeding on to greet
         Your epitaphic rhyme.
Your life is but a little beat
         Within the heart of Time.

A little gain, a little pain,
         A laugh, lest you may moan;
A little blame, a little fame,
         A star-gleam on a stone.

Views: 35

Werbung
by Franz Grillparzer (1791-1872)

Mädchen, willst du mir gehören,
So sprich ja, und schlag’ nur ein!
Kann nicht seufzen, kann nicht schwören,
Willst du! – Gut! – Wenn nicht, – mag’s sein!

Gold hab’ ich nicht aufzuweisen,
Aber Lieder zahlen auch;
Will dich loben, will dich preisen,
Wie’s bei Dichtern heit’rer Brauch.

Doch gefällt’s dir, einst zu brechen,
Thu’s mit Maß, und hüte dich!
Lied, das schmeichelt, kann auch stechen,
Dich verletzest du, nicht mich.

Dichters Gram ist bald verschlafen,
Seine Kunst ist todesreich,
Und die Lieder, die dich strafen,
Trösten heilend ihn zugleich.

Views: 47

A Square Poem
By Lewis Carroll (1832-1898)
Reading this poem vertically (the first word of each line, then the second word of each line and so on) yields the same poem as reading it in the normal way.

I often wondered when I cursed,
Often feared where I would be—
Wondered where she’d yield her love,
When I yield, so will she.
I would her will be pitied!
Cursed be love! She pitied me.

Views: 40

My Love Is Like to Ice
By Edmund Spenser(1552-1599)

My love is like to ice, and I to fire:
How comes it then that this her cold so great
Is not dissolved through my so hot desire,
But harder grows the more I her entreat?
Or how comes it that my exceeding heat
Is not allayed by her heart-frozen cold,
But that I burn much more in boiling sweat,
And feel my flames augmented manifold?
What more miraculous thing may be told,
That fire, which all things melts, should harden ice,
And ice, which is congealed with senseless cold,
Should kindle fire by wonderful device?
Such is the power of love in gentle mind,
That it can alter all the course of kind.

Views: 44

The Darkling Thrush
by Thomas Hardy (1840-1928)

I leant upon a coppice gate
      When Frost was spectre-gray,
And Winter’s dregs made desolate
      The weakening eye of day.
The tangled bine-stems scored the sky
      Like strings of broken lyres,
And all mankind that haunted nigh
      Had sought their household fires.

The land’s sharp features seemed to be
      The Century’s corpse outleant,
His crypt the cloudy canopy,
      The wind his death-lament.
The ancient pulse of germ and birth
      Was shrunken hard and dry,
And every spirit upon earth
      Seemed fervorless as I.

At once a voice arose among
      The bleak twigs overhead
In a full-hearted evensong
      Of joy illimited;
An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,
      In blast-beruffled plume,
Had chosen thus to fling his soul
      Upon the growing gloom.

So little cause for carolings
      Of such ecstatic sound
Was written on terrestrial things
      Afar or nigh around.
That I could think there trembled through
      His happy good-night air
Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew
      And I was unaware.

Views: 39

Himna slobodi
by Ivan Gundulič (1589-1638)

O liepa, o draga, o slatka slobodo,
dar u kôm sva blaga višnji nam Bog je dô,
uzroče istini od naše sve slave,
uresu jedini od ove Dubrave,
sva srebra, sva zlata, svi ljudcki životi
ne mogu bit plata tvôj čistoj lipoti!

Views: 31

Little Ball of Yarn
Anonymous folk song
Because today is Distaff Day

One fine day in May, I took a walk one day
Down by my grandfather’s farm
I met a pretty maid and this is what I said
“May I wind up your little ball of yarn?”

I took this pretty maid underneath the shade
Not intending for to do any harm
I took her by surprise and I laid between her thighs
And I winded up her little ball of yarn.

This pretty maid she rose and she pulled on her clothes
And straight to her grandma she did run
And for me, I was never seen as I skipped across the green
After winding up her little ball of yarn.

Come all you young men, never step out after ten
Not intending for to do any harm
For as soon as they lie down, you’ve got to pay your sweet half crown
For the winding of the little ball of yarn.

Come all you young men, take a warning to what I said
Never rise up too early in the morn
For like the blackbird and the thrush
There’ll be someone behind the bush
That will wind up your little ball of yarn.

Views: 39

Fog
by Carl Sandburg (1878-1967)

The fog comes
on little cat feet.

It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.

Views: 44