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Another On The Same

Here lieth one who did most truly prove,
That he could never die while he could move,
So hung his destiny never to rot
While he might still jogg on, and keep his trot,
Made of sphear-metal, never to decay
Untill his revolution was at stay.
Time numbers motion, yet (without a crime
'Gainst old truth) motion number'd out his time:
And like an Engin mov'd with wheel and waight,
His principles being ceast, he ended strait.
Rest that gives all men life, gave him his death,
And too much breathing put him out of breath;
Nor were it contradiction to affirm
Too long vacation hastned on his term.
Meerly to drive the time away he sickn'd,
Fainted, and died, nor would with Ale be quickn'd;
Nay, quoth he, on his swooning bed out-stretch'd,
If I may not carry, sure Ile ne're be fetch'd,
But vow though the cross Doctors all stood hearers,
For one Carrier put down to make six bearers.

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poem by John Milton
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Latter-Day Liar

Ah, the beautiful Latter-Day liar,
Whose fallacious failings continue to draw my ire!
Pray tell, what is the rhyme or the reason
For the world of lies, that serve as her heart's treason?
Apparently, it eases her mind and the burden of her guilt,
To leave the Truth out in the Sun, to wither and wilt, -
And not allow Adam's Ale to continue to nourish it?
Why would she ever want Truth to flourish? ! It
Is surely I who is facetious, yet this point I make:
Why would she ever want to cheapen or forsake
What not even she could possibly deny-
And live a life that is an Unholy Lie! ?
Now so far from reality's base,
She continues to disregard and deface
Both, God's Divine Laws and those of our land-
And has broken one of the Laws that God Himself, doth Command:
'Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neigbor';
Did she forget this one-or perhaps, she forgot her way! ? For,
All who have paid attention along the way,
Know that she has chosen to cower, from that day

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poem by Maurice Harris
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Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 3. Interlude VII.

Touched by the pathos of these rhymes,
The Theologian said: 'All praise
Be to the ballads of old times
And to the bards of simple ways,
Who walked with Nature hand in hand,
Whose country was their Holy Land,
Whose singing robes were homespun brown
From looms of their own native town,
Which they were not ashamed to wear,
And not of silk or sendal gay,
Nor decked with fanciful array
Of cockle-shells from Outre-Mer.'

To whom the Student answered: 'Yes;
All praise and honor! I confess
That bread and ale, home-baked, home-brewed,
Are wholesome and nutritious food,
But not enough for all our needs;
Poets--the best of them--are birds
Of passage; where their instinct leads

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poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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The Wandering Pilgrim

Will Piggot must to Coxwould go,
To live, alas! in want,
Unless Sir Thomas say, No, no,
Th' allowance is too scant.

The gracious knight full well does weet
Ten farthings ne'er will do
To keep a man each day in meat;
Some bread to meat is due.

A Rechabite poor Will must live,
And drink of Adam's ale;
Pure element no life can give,
Or mortal soul regale.

Spare diet and spring-water clear
Physicians hold are good:
Who diets thus need never fear
A fever in the blood.

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poem by Matthew Prior
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To A Friend Who Had Declared His Intention Of Writing No More Poetry

Dear Charles! whilst yet thou wert a babe, I ween
That Genius plunged thee in that wizard fount
High Castalie: and (sureties of thy faith)
That Pity and Simplicity stood by.
And promised for thee that thou shouldst renounce
The world's low cares and lying vanities,
Steadfast and rooted in the heavenly Muse,
And washed and sanctified to Poesy.
Yes -- thou wert plunged but with forgetful hand
Held, as by Thetis erst her warrior son:
And with those recreant unbaptized heels
Thou'rt flying from thy bounden minist'ries--
So sore it seems and burthensome a task
To weave unwithering flowers! But take thou heed:
For thou art vulnerable, wild-eyed boy,
And I have arrows mystically dipt,
Such as may stop thy speed. Is thy Burns dead?
And shall he die unwept, and sink to earth
'Without the meed of one melodious tear?'
Thy Burns, and Nature's own beloved bard,

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poem by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
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Penmaen Pool

For the Visitors’ Book at the Inn

Who long for rest, who look for pleasure
Away from counter, court, or school
O where live well your lease of leisure
But here at, here at Penmaen Pool?

You’ll dare the Alp? you’ll dart the skiff?—
Each sport has here its tackle and tool:
Come, plant the staff by Cadair cliff;
Come, swing the sculls on Penmaen Pool.

What’s yonder?—Grizzled Dyphwys dim:
The triple-hummocked Giant’s stool,
Hoar messmate, hobs and nobs with him
To halve the bowl of Penmaen Pool.

And all the landscape under survey,
At tranquil turns, by nature’s rule,

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poem by Gerard Manley Hopkins
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Allanah Rae

My dear Allanah,
Great niece I love.
Forgive Uncle Larry,
For not knowing how to spell your name,
Right!
Well...
Most of your life.
Your parents are too creative!

And this poem tonight I write for you,
I'm hoping you and I remain close and tight!
Aiight?
Give me five!
Upside.
Down low.
Too slow!
Hahahaha...

Remember you had said to me,
'Wassup with this?

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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Progress of Poetry

The Farmer's Goose, who in the Stubble,
Has fed without Restraint, or Trouble;
Grown fat with Corn and Sitting still,
Can scarce get o'er the Barn-Door Sill:
And hardly waddles forth, to cool
Her Belly in the neighb'ring Pool:
Nor loudly cackles at the Door;
For Cackling shews the Goose is poor.

But when she must be turn'd to graze,
And round the barren Common strays,
Hard Exercise, and harder Fare
Soon make my Dame grow lank and spare:
Her Body light, she tries her Wings,
And scorns the Ground, and upward springs,
While all the Parish, as she flies,
Hear Sounds harmonious from the Skies.

Such is the Poet, fresh in Pay,
(The third Night's Profits of his Play;)

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poem by Jonathan Swift
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Cambridge

Cambridge is Brueghel's Village come to life
Warren of Gothic windows, red brick walls
Eating, laughing, drinking on the streets
Visitors throng the eateries and halls
Ring Toni's Ice cream van and market stalls

See there, a wattle fence, a low thatched roof
Clipped cleanly as a tonsured, shiny friar!
Ale houses, colleges, and grazing cows
All line the River Cam, by College spire

Daffodils, aconites, anemones,
Swans gliding up to punts along the backs
Sun dappled bridges, lazy, languid days
The splash of water raised by oar smacks

A cycling city, all the world is here
Queen's College, where Erasmus came to teach
Labelling local girls ‘the kissing kind'
Oh, Youth's the time to suck life like a peach

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poem by Sheena Blackhall
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The Pauper's Christmas Carol

Full of drink and full of meat,
On our SAVIOUR'S natal day,
CHARITY'S perennial treat;
Thus I heard a Pauper say:—
'Ought not I to dance and sing
Thus supplied with famous cheer?
Heigho!
I hardly know—
Christmas comes but once a year.

'After labor's long turmoil,
Sorry fare and frequent fast,
Two-and-fifty weeks of toil,
Pudding-time is come at last!
But are raisins high or low,
Flour and suet cheap or dear?
Heigho!
I hardly know—
Christmas comes but once a year.

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poem by Thomas Hood
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