Tongues Made Of Glass
Shaun Shane

If only
our tongues
were made
of glass

how much
more careful
we would be
when we
speak                             

A Pause
Christina Rossetti

They made the chamber sweet with flowers and leaves,
And the bed sweet with flowers on which I lay;
While my soul, love-bound, loitered on its way.
I did not hear the birds about the eaves,
Nor hear the reapers talk among the sheaves:
Only my soul kept watch from day to day,
My thirsty soul kept watch for one away:--
Perhaps he loves, I thought, remembers, grieves.
At length there came the step upon the stair,
Upon the lock the old familiar hand:
Then first my spirit seemed to scent the air
Of Paradise; then first the tardy sand
Of time ran golden; and I felt my hair
Put on a glory, and my soul expand.                             

Mismet
Thomas Hardy

He was leaning by a face,
He was looking into eyes,
And he knew a trysting-place,
And he heard seductive sighs;
       But the face,
       And the eyes,
       And the place,
       And the sighs,
Were not, alas, the right ones--the ones meet for him--
Though fine and sweet the features, and the feelings all abrim.

She was looking at a form,
She was listening for a tread,
She could feel a waft of charm
When a certain name was said;
       But the form,
       And the tread,
       And the charm,
       And name said,
Were the wrong ones for her, and ever would be so,
While the heritor of the right it would have saved her soul to know!

Wadsworth Moor
Ted Hughes

Where the mothers
Gallop their souls

Where the howlings of heaven
Pour down onto earth
Looking for bodies
Of birds, animals, people

A happiness starts up, secret and wild,
Like a lark-song just out of hearing
Hidden in the wind

A silent evil joy
Like a star-broken stone
Who knows nothing more can happen to it
In it's cradle-grave.

Meeting An Old Friend
Du Mu  803 - 852

For years not having met,
we meet, and yet with sadness
and with tears like sleet.
(Your hair, alas, resembles silk.)
In grief, each grips the other's hand.
It is the time of falling flowers, too.
Do not begrudge our tipsiness tonight;
brief life is here our portion.

Happy Birthday, James!

Snowflakes
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Out of the bosom of the Air
Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,
Over the woodlands brown and bare,
Over the harvest-fields forsaken,
Silent, and soft, and slow
Descends the snow.

Even as our cloudy fancies take
Suddenly shape in some divine expression,
Even as the troubled heart doth make
In the white countenance confession
The troubled sky reveals
The grief it feels.

This is the poem of the air,
Slowly in silent syllables recorded;
This is the secret of despair,
Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded,
Now whispered and revealed
To wood and field.                             

 

Biased Binding

Thanks for the book. Interesting.
(Although, I see you didn’t sign it.)
Sorry for always pestering,
(But I just had to underline it.)
I know that you’re crazy about aardvarks,
(But really, I’m not that fussed.)
Fascinating to read that the male barks.
(It will end up collecting dust.)
Did you know they’re related to elephants,
(It could be a useful door stopper.)
And aren’t afraid of fire ants?
(But, I’d trip over it, coming a cropper.)

So, please find enclosed the aforementioned tome
Even though about aardvarks I’ve read,
I really don’t think I can read any more
Of your 'Bug-eating Beasts - A to Z'.