There was a little Frog
Whose home was in a bog,
And he worried ’cause he wasn’t big enough.
He sees an ox and cries:
“That’s just about my size,
If I stretch myself – Say Sister, see me puff!”
So he blew, blew, blew,
Saying: “Sister, will that do?”
But she shook her head. And then he lost his wits.
For he stretched and puffed again
Till he cracked beneath the strain,
And burst, and flew about in little bits.
by JEAN DE LA FONTAINE (1621-1695)
Public Domain Poetry
Hypocrisy will serve as well
To propagate a church, as zeal;
As persecution and promotion
Do equally advance devotion:
So round white stones will serve, they say,
As well as eggs to make hens lay.
by SAMUEL BUTLER (1613-1680)
Public Domain Poetry
When I reflect with serious sense,
While years and years run on,
How soon I may be summoned hence –
There’s cook a-calling John.
Our lives are built so frail and poor,
On sand and not on rocks,
We’re hourly standing at Death’s door –
There’s some one double knocks.
All human days have settled terms,
Our fates we cannot force;
This flesh of mine will feed the worms –
They’re come to lunch of course!
And when my body’s turned to clay,
And dear friends hear my knell,
Oh let them give a sigh and say –
I hear the upstairs bell!
by THOMAS HOOD (1799-1845)
Public Domain Poetry
No, I have no capacity for life.
I could be considered foolish –
Today I am not going to the restaurant.
I am after all this time weary of the waiters,
Who scornfully bring us, with their smug grimaces,
Dark beer and make us so confused
That we cannot find our home
And we must
Use the foolish street lights
To prop ourselves up
with weak hands.
Today I have bigger things in mind –
Ah, I shall find out the meaning of existence.
And in the evening I shall do some roller skating
Or go at some point to Temple.
by ALFRED LICHTENSTEIN (1889-1914)
Public Domain Poetry
Why were you born when the snow was falling?
You should have come to the cuckoo’s calling,
Or when grapes are green in the cluster,
Or, at least, when lithe swallows muster
For their far off flying
From summer dying.
Why did you die when the lambs were cropping?
You should have died at the apples’ dropping,
When the grasshopper comes to trouble,
And the wheat-fields are sodden stubble,
And all winds go sighing
For sweet things dying.
by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI (1830-1894)
Public Domain Poetry
unbolt me 