Written by
Ogden Nash |
People live forever in Jacksonville and St. Petersburg and Tampa,
But you don't have to live forever to become a grampa.
The entrance requirements for grampahood are comparatively mild,
You only have to live until your child has a child.
From that point on you start looking both ways over your shoulder,
Because sometimes you feel thirty years younger and sometimes
thirty years older.
Now you begin to realize who it was that reached the height of
imbecility,
It was whoever said that grandparents have all the fun and none of
the responsibility.
This is the most enticing spiderwebs of a tarradiddle ever spun,
Because everybody would love to have a baby around who was no
responsibility and lots of fun,
But I can think of no one but a mooncalf or a gaby
Who would trust their own child to raise a baby.
So you have to personally superintend your grandchild from diapers
to pants and from bottle to spoon,
Because you know that your own child hasn't sense enough to come
in out of a typhoon.
You don't have to live forever to become a grampa, but if you do
want to live forever,
Don't try to be clever;
If you wish to reach the end of the trail with an uncut throat,
Don't go around saying Quote I don't mind being a grampa but I
hate being married to a gramma Unquote.
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Written by
Richard Brautigan |
Yup.
A long lazy September look
in the mirror
say it's true.
I'm 31
and my nose is growing
old.
It starts about 1/2
an inch
below the bridge
and strolls geriatrically
down
for another inch or so:
stopping.
Fortunately, the rest
of the nose is comparatively
young.
I wonder if girls
will want me with an
old nose.
I can hear them now
the heartless bitches!
"He's cute
but his nose
is old."
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Written by
Robert William Service |
Unto his housemaid spoke the Laird:
"Tonight the Bishop is our guest;
The spare room must be warmed and aired:
To please him we will do our best.
A worthy haggis you must make,
And serve a bowl of barley bree;
We must be hearty for the sake
Of Highland Hospitality.
The feast was set, the candles lit,
The Bishop came with modest mien,
And (one surmised) was glad to sit
And sup in this ancestral scene.
A noble haggis graced the board;
The Laird proposed a toast or two,
And ever and anon he poured
His guest a glass of Mountain Dew.
Then to his maid the Laird gave tongue:
"My sonsie Jean, my friend is old.
Comparatively you are young,
And not so sensitive to cold.
Poor chiel! His blood austerely beats,
Though it be sped by barley bree . . .
Slip half an hour between the sheets,
Brave lass, and warm his bed a wee.
Said she: "I'll do the best I can
So that his couch may cosy be,
And as a human warming pan
Prove Highland Hospitality."
So hearing sounds of mild carouse,
As in the down she pillowed deep:
"In half an hour I will arouse,"
She vowed, then soundly went to sleep.
So when the morn was amber-orbed
The Bishop from a dream awoke,
And as his parritch he absorbed,
Unto his host he slyly spoke:
"Your haggis, Laird, was nobly bred,
And braw your brew of barley bree -
But oh your thought to warm the bed!
That's Highland Hospitality.
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Written by
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe |
I have taken advantage of the publication of a Second Edition
of my translation of the Poems of Goethe (originally published in
1853), to add to the Collection a version of the much admired classical
Poem of Hermann and Dorothea, which was previously omitted by me
in consequence of its length. Its universal popularity, however,
and the fact that it exhibits the versatility of Goethe's talents
to a greater extent than, perhaps, any other of his poetical works,
seem to call for its admission into the present volume.
On the other hand I have not thought it necessary to include the
sketch of Goethe's Life that accompanied the First Edition. At the
time of its publication, comparatively little was known in this
country of the incidents of his career, and my sketch was avowedly
written as a temporary stop-gap, as it were, pending the production
of some work really deserving the tittle of a life of Goethe. Not
to mention other contributions to the literature of the subject,
Mr. Lewis's important volumes give the English reader all the information
he is likely to require respecting Goethe's career, and my short
memoir appeared to be no longer required.
I need scarcely add that I have availed myself of this opportunity
to make whatever improvements have suggested themselves to me in
my original version of these Poems.
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Written by
Emily Dickinson |
We see -- Comparatively --
The Thing so towering high
We could not grasp its segment
Unaided -- Yesterday --
This Morning's finer Verdict --
Makes scarcely worth the toil --
A furrow -- Our Cordillera --
Our Apennine -- a Knoll --
Perhaps 'tis kindly -- done us --
The Anguish -- and the loss --
The wrenching -- for His Firmament
The Thing belonged to us --
To spare these Striding Spirits
Some Morning of Chagrin --
The waking in a Gnat's -- embrace --
Our Giants -- further on --
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