Best Famous About The Same Poems

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Written by Robert Frost | The Road Not Taken Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth; Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim Because it was grassy and wanted wear; Though as for that, the passing there Had worn them really about the same, And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I marked the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way I doubted if I should ever come back. I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I, I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.

Written by Robert William Service | Robert William Service - Laughter I Laugh at Life: its antics make for me a giddy games, Where only foolish fellows take themselves with solemn aim. I laugh at pomp and vanity, at riches, rank and pride; At social inanity, at swager, swank and side. At poets, pastry-cooks and kings, at folk sublime and small, Who fuss about a thousand things that matter not at all; At those who dream of name and fame, at those who scheme for pelf. . . . But best of all the laughing game - is laughing at myself. Some poet chap had labelled man the noblest work of God: I see myself a charlatan, a humbug and a fraud. Yea, 'spite of show and shallow wit, an sentimental drool, I know myself a hypocrite, a coward and a fool. And though I kick myself with glee profoundly on the pants, I'm little worse, it seems to me, than other human ants. For if you probe your private mind, impervious to shame, Oh, Gentle Reader, you may find you're much about the same. Then let us mock with ancient mirth this comic, cosmic plan; The stars are laughing at the earth; God's greatest joke is man. For laughter is a buckler bright, and scorn a shining spear; So let us laugh with all our might at folly, fraud and fear. Yet on our sorry selves be spent our most sardonic glee. Oh don't pay life a compliment to take is seriously. For he who can himself despise, be surgeon to the bone, May win to worth in others' eyes, to wisdom in his own.

Written by Paul Laurence Dunbar | THE RIVALS 'T was three an' thirty year ago, When I was ruther young, you know, I had my last an' only fight About a gal one summer night. 'T was me an' Zekel Johnson; Zeke 'N' me 'd be'n spattin' 'bout a week, Each of us tryin' his best to show That he was Liza Jones's beau.[Pg 28] We could n't neither prove the thing, Fur she was fur too sharp to fling One over fur the other one An' by so doin' stop the fun That we chaps did n't have the sense To see she got at our expense, But that's the way a feller does, Fur boys is fools an' allus was. An' when they's females in the game I reckon men's about the same. Well, Zeke an' me went on that way An' fussed an' quarrelled day by day; While Liza, mindin' not the fuss, Jest kep' a-goin' with both of us, Tell we pore chaps, that's Zeke an' me, Was jest plum mad with jealousy. Well, fur a time we kep' our places, An' only showed by frownin' faces An' looks 'at well our meanin' boded How full o' fight we both was loaded. At last it come, the thing broke out, An' this is how it come about. One night ('t was fair, you'll all agree) I got Eliza's company, An' leavin' Zekel in the lurch, Went trottin' off with her to church. An' jest as we had took our seat (Eliza lookin' fair an' sweet), Why, I jest could n't help but grin When Zekel come a-bouncin' in As furious as the law allows. He 'd jest be'n up to Liza's house, To find her gone, then come to church To have this end put to his search. I guess I laffed that meetin' through, An' not a mortal word I knew Of what the preacher preached er read Er what the choir sung er said. Fur every time I 'd turn my head I could n't skeercely help but see 'At Zekel had his eye on me. An' he 'ud sort o' turn an' twist An' grind his teeth an' shake his fist. I laughed, fur la! the hull church seen us, An' knowed that suthin' was between us. Well, meetin' out, we started hum, I sorter feelin' what would come. We 'd jest got out, when up stepped Zeke, An' said, "Scuse me, I 'd like to speak[Pg 29] To you a minute." "Cert," said I— A-nudgin' Liza on the sly An' laughin' in my sleeve with glee, I asked her, please, to pardon me. We walked away a step er two, Jest to git out o' Liza's view, An' then Zeke said, "I want to know Ef you think you 're Eliza's beau, An' 'at I 'm goin' to let her go Hum with sich a chap as you?" An' I said bold, "You bet I do." Then Zekel, sneerin', said 'at he Did n't want to hender me. But then he 'lowed the gal was his An' 'at he guessed he knowed his biz, An' was n't feared o' all my kin With all my friends an' chums throwed in. Some other things he mentioned there That no born man could no ways bear Er think o' ca'mly tryin' to stan' Ef Zeke had be'n the bigges' man In town, an' not the leanest runt 'At time an' labor ever stunt. An' so I let my fist go "bim," I thought I 'd mos' nigh finished him. But Zekel did n't take it so. He jest ducked down an' dodged my blow An' then come back at me so hard, I guess I must 'a' hurt the yard, Er spilet the grass plot where I fell, An' sakes alive it hurt me; well, It would n't be'n so bad, you see, But he jest kep' a-hittin' me. An' I hit back an' kicked an' pawed, But 't seemed 't was mostly air I clawed, While Zekel used his science well A-makin' every motion tell. He punched an' hit, why, goodness lands, Seemed like he had a dozen hands. Well, afterwhile they stopped the fuss, An' some one kindly parted us. All beat an' cuffed an' clawed an' scratched, An' needin' both our faces patched, Each started hum a different way; An' what o' Liza, do you say, Why, Liza—little humbug—dern her, Why, she 'd gone home with Hiram Turner.

Written by Robert William Service | Laughter I Laugh at Life: its antics make for me a giddy games, Where only foolish fellows take themselves with solemn aim. I laugh at pomp and vanity, at riches, rank and pride; At social inanity, at swager, swank and side. At poets, pastry-cooks and kings, at folk sublime and small, Who fuss about a thousand things that matter not at all; At those who dream of name and fame, at those who scheme for pelf. . . . But best of all the laughing game - is laughing at myself. Some poet chap had labelled man the noblest work of God: I see myself a charlatan, a humbug and a fraud. Yea, 'spite of show and shallow wit, an sentimental drool, I know myself a hypocrite, a coward and a fool. And though I kick myself with glee profoundly on the pants, I'm little worse, it seems to me, than other human ants. For if you probe your private mind, impervious to shame, Oh, Gentle Reader, you may find you're much about the same. Then let us mock with ancient mirth this comic, cosmic plan; The stars are laughing at the earth; God's greatest joke is man. For laughter is a buckler bright, and scorn a shining spear; So let us laugh with all our might at folly, fraud and fear. Yet on our sorry selves be spent our most sardonic glee. Oh don't pay life a compliment to take is seriously. For he who can himself despise, be surgeon to the bone, May win to worth in others' eyes, to wisdom in his own.