The morns are meeker than they were. The nuts are getting brown; The berry’s cheek is plumper, The rose is out of town. The maple wears a gayer scarf, The field a scarlet gown. Lest I should be old- fashioned, Autumn Emily Dickinson
Dec 23, 2015
The morns are meeker than they
were.
The nuts are getting brown;
The berry’s cheek is plumper,
The rose is out of town.
The maple wears a gayer scarf,
The field a scarlet gown.
Lest I should be old-fashioned,
I’ll put a trinket on.
AutumnEmily Dickinson
Who has seen the wind?Neither I nor you;
But when the leaves hang trembling
The wind is passing through.Who has seen the wind?
Neither you nor I;But when the trees bow down
their headsThe wind is passing by.
Who Has Seen the Wind?
-Christina Rossetti
I will be the gladdest thingUnder the sun!
I will touch a hundred flowersAnd not pick one.
I will look at cliffs and cloudsWith quiet eyes,
Watch the wind bow down the grass,And the grass rise.
And when lights begin to showUp from the town,
I will mark which must be mine,And then start down!
Afternoon on a HillEdna St. Vincent Millay
Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer To stop without a farmhouse near Between the woods and frozen lake The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake To ask if there is some mistake. The only other sound’s the sweep Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep. But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep.
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
Robert Frost
Something told the wild geeseIt was time to go;Though the fields lay goldenSomething whispered, . . . "Snow".
Leaves were green and stirring,Berries luster-glossed,But beneath warm feathersSomething cautioned . . . "frost"
All the sagging orchard steamed with amber spiceBut each wild breast stiffened at remember "ice".
Something told the wild geese it was time to fly.Summer sun was on their wingsWinter in their cry!
Something Told the Wild GeeseRachel Field
A bat is bornNaked and blind and pale.
His mother makes a pocket of her tailAnd catches him. He clings to her long
furBy his thumbs and toes and teeth.
And them the mother dances through the night
Doubling and looping, soaring, somersaulting—
Her baby hangs on underneath.All night, in happiness, she hunts and
fliesHer sharp cries
Like shining needlepoints of soundGo out into the night and, echoing
back,Tell her what they have touched.
She hears how far it is, how big it is,Which way it’s going:She lives by hearing.
The mother eats the moths and gnats she catches
In full flight; in full flightThe mother drinks the water of the pond
She skims across. Her baby hangs on tight.Her baby drinks the milk she makes him
In moonlight or starlight, in mid-air.Their single shadow, printed on the moon
Or fluttering across the stars,Whirls on all night; at daybreak
The tired mother flaps home to her rafter.The others are all there.
They hang themselves up by their toes,They wrap themselves in their brown
wings.Bunched upside down, they sleep in air.Their sharp ears, their sharp teeth, their
quick sharp facesAre dull and slow and mild.
All the bright day, as the mother sleeps,She folds her wings about her sleeping
child.
A Bat is Born
-Randall Jarrell
I always like summerbest
you can eat fresh cornfrom daddy’s garden
and okraand greens
and cabbageand lots ofbarbecue
and buttermilkand homemade ice-cream
at the church picnicand listen togospel music
outsideat the churchhomecoming
and you go to the mountainswith
your grandmotherand go barefooted
and be warmall the time
not only when you go to bedand sleep
Knoxville, Tennessee
Nikki Giovanni
Dot a dot dot dot a dot dotSpotting the windowpane.
Spack a spack speck flick a flack fleckFreckling the windowpane.
A spatter a scatter a wet cat a clatterA splatter a rumble outside.
Umbrella umbrella umbrella umbrellaBumbershoot barrel of rain.
Slosh a galosh slosh a galoshSlither and slather a glide
A puddle a jump a puddle a jumpA puddle a jump puddle splosh
A juddle a pump a luddle a dumpA pudmuddle jump in and slide!
WeatherEve Merriam
The Pied Piper of HamelinRobert Browning
By famous Hanover city;The river Weser, deep and wide,Washes its wall on the southern side;A pleasanter spot you never spied;But, when begins my ditty,Almost five hundred years ago,To see the townsfolk suffer soFrom vermin, was a pity.Rats!They fought the dogs and killed the cats,And bit the babies in the cradles,And ate the cheeses out of the vats.And licked the soup from the cook’s own ladles,Split open the kegs of salted sprats,Made nests inside men’s Sunday hats,And even spoiled the women’s chats,By drowning their speakingWith shrieking and squeakingIn fifty different sharps and flats.
At last the people in a bodyTo the Town Hall came flocking:“Tis clear,” cried they, “our Mayor’s a noddy;And as for our Corporation—shockingTo think we buy gowns lined with ermineFor dolts that can’t or won’t determineWhat’s best to rid us of our vermin!You hope, because you’re old and obese,To find in the furry civic robe ease?Rouse up, sirs! Give your brains a rackingTo find the remedy we’re lacking,Or, sure as fate, we’ll send you packing!”At this the Mayor and CorporationQuaked with a mighty consternation.
Your world is as big as you make it.I know, for I used to abide
In the narrowest nest in a corner,My wings pressing close to my side.
But I sighted the distant horizonWhere the skyline encircled the sea
And I throbbed with a burning desire
To travel this immensity.I battered the cordons around me
And cradled my wings on the breeze,
Then soared to the uttermost reaches
With rapture, with power, with ease!
Your WorldGeorgia Douglas Johnson
Your world is as big as you make it.
I know, for I used to abideIn the narrowest nest in a corner,
My wings pressing close to my side.
But I sighted the distant horizonWhere the skyline encircled the
seaAnd I throbbed with a burning
desireTo travel this immensity.
I battered the cordons around meAnd cradled my wings on the
breeze,Then soared to the uttermost
reachesWith rapture, with power, with
ease!
Your WorldGeorgia Douglas Johnson
Light
NightIs Our Parchment
FirefliesFlitting
Fireflies Glimmering
Glowing Insect CalligraphersPracticing Penmanship
Six-Legged scribblersOf vanishing messages,
Fine artists in flightAdding dabs of light
Signing the June nightsAs if they were paintingsFlickering, fireflies, fireflies.
Light Is the ink we useNight
We’re firefliesFlickering
Flashing
Fireflies gleaming
Insect calligraphers
Copying sentencesSix-legged calligraphers
Fleeting graffitiFine artists in flight
Bright brush strokesSigning the June nightsAs if they were paintingsWe’re fireflies, flickering fireflies…
FirefliesPaul Fleischman
Jellicle Cats come out to-nightJellicle Cats come one come all:The Jellicle Moon is shining bright -Jellicles come to the Jellicle Ball.
Jellicle Cats are black and white,Jellicle Cats are rather small;Jellicle Cats are merry and bright,And pleasant to hear when they caterwaul.Jellicle Cats have cheerful faces,Jellicle Cats have bright black eyes;They like to practise their airs and gracesAnd wait for the Jellicle Moon to rise. Jellicle Cats develop slowly,Jellicle Cats are not too big;Jellicle Cats are roly-poly,They know how to dance a gavotte and a jig.Until the Jellicle Moon appearsThey make their toilette and take their repose:Jellicle Cats wash behind their ears,Jellicle dry between their toes.
Jellicle Cats are white and black,Jellicle Cats are of moderate size;Jellicle Cats jump like a jumping-jack,Jellicle Cats have moonlit eyes.They're quitet enough in the morning hours,They're quitet enough in the afternoon,Reserving their terpsichorean powersTo dance by the light of the Jellicle Moon.
Jellicle Cats are black and white,Jellicle Cats (as I said) are small;If it happends to be a stormy nightThey will practise a caper or two in the hall.If it happens the sun is shining brightYou would say they had nothing to do at all:They are resting and saving themselves to be rightFor the Jellicle Moon and the Jellicle Ball.
T. S. elliot
The Song of the Jellicles