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Best Famous Hornet Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Hornet poems. This is a select list of the best famous Hornet poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Hornet poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of hornet poems.

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12
Written by José Martí | Create an image from this poem

A Sincere Man Am I

A sincere man am I
From the land where palm trees grow,
And I want before I die
My soul's verses to bestow.
I'm a traveler to all parts, And a newcomer to none: I am art among the arts, With the mountains I am one.
I know how to name and class All the strange flowers that grow; I know every blade of grass, Fatal lie and sublime woe.
I have seen through dead of night Upon my head softly fall, Rays formed of the purest light From beauty celestial.
I have seen wings that were surging From beautiful women's shoulders, And seen butterflies emerging From the refuse heap that moulders.
I have known a man to live With a dagger at his side, And never once the name give Of she by whose hand he died.
Twice, for an instant, did I My soul's reflection espy: Twice: when my poor father died And when she bade me good-bye.
I trembled once, when I flung The vineyard gate, and to my dread, The wicked hornet had stung My little girl on the forehead.
I rejoiced once and felt lucky The day that my jailer came To read the death warrant to me That bore his tears and my name.
I hear a sigh across the earth, I hear a sigh over the deep: It is no sign reaching my hearth, But my son waking from sleep.
If they say I have obtained The pick of the jeweller's trove, A good friend is what I've gained And I have put aside love.
I have seen across the skies A wounded eagle still flying; I know the cubby where lies The snake of its venom dying.
I know that the world is weak And must soon fall to the ground, Then the gentle brook will speak Above the quiet profound.
While trembling with joy and dread, I have touched with hand so bold A once-bright star that fell dead From heaven at my threshold.
On my brave heart is engraved The sorrow hidden from all eyes: The son of a land enslaved, Lives for it, suffers and dies.
All is beautiful and right, All is as music and reason; And all, like diamonds, is light That was coal before its season.
I know when fools are laid to rest Honor and tears will abound, And that of all fruits, the best Is left to rot in holy ground.
Without a word, the pompous muse I've set aside, and understood: From a withered branch, I choose To hang my doctoral hood.
Written by Anne Sexton | Create an image from this poem

Flee On Your Donkey

 Because there was no other place
to flee to,
I came back to the scene of the disordered senses,
came back last night at midnight,
arriving in the thick June night
without luggage or defenses,
giving up my car keys and my cash,
keeping only a pack of Salem cigarettes
the way a child holds on to a toy.
I signed myself in where a stranger puts the inked-in X's— for this is a mental hospital, not a child's game.
Today an intern knocks my knees, testing for reflexes.
Once I would have winked and begged for dope.
Today I am terribly patient.
Today crows play black-jack on the stethoscope.
Everyone has left me except my muse, that good nurse.
She stays in my hand, a mild white mouse.
The curtains, lazy and delicate, billow and flutter and drop like the Victorian skirts of my two maiden aunts who kept an antique shop.
Hornets have been sent.
They cluster like floral arrangements on the screen.
Hornets, dragging their thin stingers, hover outside, all knowing, hissing: the hornet knows.
I heard it as a child but what was it that he meant? The hornet knows! What happened to Jack and Doc and Reggy? Who remembers what lurks in the heart of man? What did The Green Hornet mean, he knows? Or have I got it wrong? Is it The Shadow who had seen me from my bedside radio? Now it's Dinn, Dinn, Dinn! while the ladies in the next room argue and pick their teeth.
Upstairs a girl curls like a snail; in another room someone tries to eat a shoe; meanwhile an adolescent pads up and down the hall in his white tennis socks.
A new doctor makes rounds advertising tranquilizers, insulin, or shock to the uninitiated.
Six years of such small preoccupations! Six years of shuttling in and out of this place! O my hunger! My hunger! I could have gone around the world twice or had new children - all boys.
It was a long trip with little days in it and no new places.
In here, it's the same old crowd, the same ruined scene.
The alcoholic arrives with his gold culbs.
The suicide arrives with extra pills sewn into the lining of her dress.
The permanent guests have done nothing new.
Their faces are still small like babies with jaundice.
Meanwhile, they carried out my mother, wrapped like somebody's doll, in sheets, bandaged her jaw and stuffed up her holes.
My father, too.
He went out on the rotten blood he used up on other women in the Middle West.
He went out, a cured old alcoholic on crooked feet and useless hands.
He went out calling for his father who died all by himself long ago - that fat banker who got locked up, his genes suspened like dollars, wrapped up in his secret, tied up securely in a straitjacket.
But you, my doctor, my enthusiast, were better than Christ; you promised me another world to tell me who I was.
I spent most of my time, a stranger, damned and in trance—that little hut, that naked blue-veined place, my eyes shut on the confusing office, eyes circling into my childhood, eyes newly cut.
Years of hints strung out—a serialized case history— thirty-three years of the same dull incest that sustained us both.
You, my bachelor analyst, who sat on Marlborough Street, sharing your office with your mother and giving up cigarettes each New Year, were the new God, the manager of the Gideon Bible.
I was your third-grader with a blue star on my forehead.
In trance I could be any age, voice, gesture—all turned backward like a drugstore clock.
Awake, I memorized dreams.
Dreams came into the ring like third string fighters, each one a bad bet who might win because there was no other.
I stared at them, concentrating on the abyss the way one looks down into a rock quarry, uncountable miles down, my hands swinging down like hooks to pull dreams up out of their cage.
O my hunger! My hunger! Once, outside your office, I collapsed in the old-fashioned swoon between the illegally parked cars.
I threw myself down, pretending dead for eight hours.
I thought I had died into a snowstorm.
Above my head chains cracked along like teeth digging their way through the snowy street.
I lay there like an overcoat that someone had thrown away.
You carried me back in, awkwardly, tenderly, with help of the red-haired secretary who was built like a lifeguard.
My shoes, I remember, were lost in the snowbank as if I planned never to walk again.
That was the winter that my mother died, half mad on morphine, blown up, at last, like a pregnant pig.
I was her dreamy evil eye.
In fact, I carried a knife in my pocketbook— my husband's good L.
L.
Bean hunting knife.
I wasn't sure if I should slash a tire or scrape the guts out of some dream.
You taught me to believe in dreams; thus I was the dredger.
I held them like an old woman with arthritic fingers, carefully straining the water out— sweet dark playthings, and above all, mysterious until they grew mournful and weak.
O my hunger! My hunger! I was the one who opened the warm eyelid like a surgeon and brought forth young girls to grunt like fish.
I told you, I said— but I was lying— that the kife was for my mother .
.
.
and then I delivered her.
The curtains flutter out and slump against the bars.
They are my two thin ladies named Blanche and Rose.
The grounds outside are pruned like an estate at Newport.
Far off, in the field, something yellow grows.
Was it last month or last year that the ambulance ran like a hearse with its siren blowing on suicide— Dinn, dinn, dinn!— a noon whistle that kept insisting on life all the way through the traffic lights? I have come back but disorder is not what it was.
I have lost the trick of it! The innocence of it! That fellow-patient in his stovepipe hat with his fiery joke, his manic smile— even he seems blurred, small and pale.
I have come back, recommitted, fastened to the wall like a bathroom plunger, held like a prisoner who was so poor he fell in love with jail.
I stand at this old window complaining of the soup, examining the grounds, allowing myself the wasted life.
Soon I will raise my face for a white flag, and when God enters the fort, I won't spit or gag on his finger.
I will eat it like a white flower.
Is this the old trick, the wasting away, the skull that waits for its dose of electric power? This is madness but a kind of hunger.
What good are my questions in this hierarchy of death where the earth and the stones go Dinn! Dinn! Dinn! It is hardly a feast.
It is my stomach that makes me suffer.
Turn, my hungers! For once make a deliberate decision.
There are brains that rot here like black bananas.
Hearts have grown as flat as dinner plates.
Anne, Anne, flee on your donkey, flee this sad hotel, ride out on some hairy beast, gallop backward pressing your buttocks to his withers, sit to his clumsy gait somehow.
Ride out any old way you please! In this place everyone talks to his own mouth.
That's what it means to be crazy.
Those I loved best died of it— the fool's disease.
Written by Anne Sexton | Create an image from this poem

Doors Doors Doors

 1.
Old Man Old man, it's four flights up and for what? Your room is hardly bigger than your bed.
Puffing as you climb, you are a brown woodcut stooped over the thin tail and the wornout tread.
The room will do.
All that's left of the old life is jampacked on shelves from floor to ceiling like a supermarket: your books, your dead wife generously fat in her polished frame, the congealing bowl of cornflakes sagging in their instant milk, your hot plate and your one luxury, a telephone.
You leave your door open, lounging in maroon silk and smiling at the other roomers who live alone.
Well, almost alone.
Through the old-fashioned wall the fellow next door has a girl who comes to call.
Twice a week at noon during their lunch hour they puase by your door to peer into your world.
They speak sadly as if the wine they carry would sour or as if the mattress would not keep them curled together, extravagantly young in their tight lock.
Old man, you are their father holding court in the dingy hall until their alarm clock rings and unwinds them.
You unstopper the quart of brandy you've saved, examining the small print in the telephone book.
The phone in your lap is all that's left of your family name.
Like a Romanoff prince you stay the same in your small alcove off the hall.
Castaway, your time is a flat sea that doesn't stop, with no new land to make for and no new stories to swap.
2.
Seamstress I'm at pains to know what else I could have done but move him out of his parish, him being my son; him being the only one at home since his Pa left us to beat the Japs at Okinawa.
I put the gold star up in the front window beside the flag.
Alterations is what I know and what I did: hems, gussets and seams.
When my boy had the fever and the bad dreams I paid for the clinic exam and a pack of lies.
As a youngster his private parts were undersize.
I thought of his Pa, that muscly old laugh he had and the boy was thin as a moth, but never once bad, as smart as a rooster! To hear some neighbors tell, Your kid! He'll go far.
He'll marry well.
So when he talked of taking the cloth, I thought I'd talk him out of it.
You're all I got, I told him.
For six years he studied up.
I prayed against God Himself for my boy.
But he stayed.
Christ was a hornet inside his head.
I guess I'd better stitch the zipper in this dress.
I guess I'll get along.
I always did.
Across the hall from me's an old invalid, aside of him, a young one -- he carries on with a girl who pretends she comes to use the john.
The old one with the bad breath and his bed all mussed, he smiles and talks to them.
He's got some crust.
Sure as hell, what else could I have done but pack up and move in here, him being my son? 3.
Young Girl Dear love, as simple as some distant evil we walk a little drunk up these three flughts where you tacked a Dufy print above your army cot.
The thin apartment doors on the way up will not tell us.
We are saying, we have our rights and let them see the sandwiches and wine we bought for we do not explain my husband's insane abuse and we do not say why your wild-haired wife has fled or that my father opened like a walnut and then was dead.
Your palms fold over me like knees.
Love is the only use.
Both a little drunk in the afternoon with the forgotten smart of August on our skin we hold hands as if we were still children who trudge up the wooden tower, on up past that close platoon of doors, past the dear old man who always asks us in and the one who sews like a wasp and will not budge.
Climbing the dark halls, I ignore their papers and pails, the twelve coats of rubbish of someone else's dim life.
Tell them need is an excuse for love.
Tell them need prevails.
Tell them I remake and smooth your bed and am your wife.
Written by A R Ammons | Create an image from this poem

Shit List; Or Omnium-gatherum Of Diversity Into Unity

 You'll rejoice at how many kinds of **** there are:
gosling **** (which J.
Williams said something was as green as), fish **** (the generality), trout ****, rainbow trout **** (for the nice), mullet ****, sand dab ****, casual sloth ****, elephant **** (awesome as process or payload), wildebeest ****, horse **** (a favorite), caterpillar **** (so many dark kinds, neatly pelleted as mint seed), baby rhinoceros ****, splashy jaybird ****, mockingbird **** (dive-bombed with the aim of song), robin **** that oozes white down lawnchairs or down roots under roosts, chicken **** and chicken mite ****, pelican ****, gannet **** (wholesome guano), fly **** (periodic), cockatoo ****, dog **** (past catalog or assimilation), cricket ****, elk (high plains) ****, and tiny scribbled little shrew ****, whale **** (what a sight, deep assumption), mandril **** (blazing blast off), weasel **** (wiles' waste), gazelle ****, magpie **** (total protein), tiger **** (too acid to contemplate), moral eel and manta ray ****, eerie shark ****, earthworm **** (a soilure), crab ****, wolf **** upon the germicidal ice, snake ****, giraffe **** that accelerates, secretary bird ****, turtle **** suspension invites, remora **** slightly in advance of the shark ****, hornet **** (difficult to assess), camel **** that slaps the ghastly dry siliceous, frog ****, beetle ****, bat **** (the marmoreal), contemptible cat ****, penguin ****, hermit crab ****, prairie hen ****, cougar ****, eagle **** (high totem stuff), buffalo **** (hardly less lofty), otter ****, beaver **** (from the animal of alluvial dreams)—a vast ordure is a broken down cloaca—macaw ****, alligator **** (that floats the Nile along), louse ****, macaque, koala, and coati ****, antelope ****, chuck-will's-widow ****, alpaca **** (very high stuff), gooney bird ****, chigger ****, bull **** (the classic), caribou ****, rasbora, python, and razorbill ****, scorpion ****, man ****, laswing fly larva ****, chipmunk ****, other-worldly wallaby ****, gopher **** (or broke), platypus ****, aardvark ****, spider ****, kangaroo and peccary ****, guanaco ****, dolphin ****, aphid ****, baboon **** (that leopards induce), albatross ****, red-headed woodpecker (nine inches long) ****, tern ****, hedgehog ****, panda ****, seahorse ****, and the **** of the wasteful gallinule.
Written by John Greenleaf Whittier | Create an image from this poem

The Barefoot Boy

 Blessings on thee, little man,
Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan!
With thy turned-up pantaloons,
And thy merry whistled tunes;
With thy red lip, redder still
Kissed by strawberries on the hill;
With the sunshine on thy face,
Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace;
From my heart I give thee joy, -
I was once a barefoot boy!
Prince thou art, - the grown-up man
Only is republican.
Let the million-dollared ride! Barefoot, trudging at his side, Thou hast more than he can buy In the reach of ear and eye, - Outward sunshine, inward joy: Blessings on thee, barefoot boy! Oh for boyhood's painless play, Sleep that wakes in laughing day, Health that mocks the doctor's rules, Knowledge never learned of schools, Of the wild bee's morning chase, Of the wild-flower's time and place, Flight of fowl and habitude Of the tenants of the wood; How the tortoise bears his shell, How the woodchuck digs his cell, And the ground-mole sinks his well; How the robin feeds her young, How the oriole's nest is hung; Where the whitest lilies blow, Where the freshest berries grow, Where the ground-nut trails its vine, Where the wood-grape's clusters shine; Of the black wasp's cunning way, Mason of his walls of clay, And the architectural plans Of gray hornet artisans! For, eschewing books and tasks, Nature answers all he asks; Hand in hand with her he walks, Face to face with her he talks, Part and parcel of her joy, - Blessings on the barefoot boy! Oh for boyhood's time of June, Crowding years in one brief moon, When all things I heard or saw, Me, their master, waited for.
I was rich in flowers and trees, Humming-birds and honey-bees; For my sport the squirrel played, Plied the snouted mole his spade; For my taste the blackberry cone Purpled over hedge and stone; Laughed the brook for my delight Through the day and through the night, Whispering at the garden wall, Talked with me from fall to fall; Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond, Mine the walnut slopes beyond, Mine, on bending orchard trees, Apples of Hesperides! Still as my horizon grew, Larger grew my riches too; All the world I saw or knew Seemed a complex Chinese toy, Fashioned for a barefoot boy! Oh for festal dainties spread, Like my bowl of milk and bread; Pewter spoon and bowl of wood, On the door-stone, gray and rude! O'er me, like a regal tent, Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent, Purple-curtained, fringed with gold, Looped in many a wind-swung fold; While for music came the play Of the pied frogs' orchestra; And, to light the noisy choir, Lit the fly his lamp of fire.
I was monarch: pomp and joy Waited on the barefoot boy! Cheerily, then, my little man, Live and laugh, as boyhood can! Though the flinty slopes be hard, Stubble-speared the new-mown sward, Every morn shall lead thee through Fresh baptisms of the dew; Every evening from thy feet Shall the cool wind kiss the heat: All too soon these feet must hide In the prison cells of pride, Lose the freedom of the sod, Like a colt's for work be shod, Made to tread the mills of toil, Up and down in ceaseless moil: Happy if their track be found Never on forbidden ground; Happy if they sink not in Quick and treacherous sands of sin.
Ah! that thou couldst know thy joy, Ere it passes, barefoot boy!
Written by Robert Browning | Create an image from this poem

Heretics Tragedy The

 A MIDDLE-AGE INTERLUDE.
ROSA MUNDI; SEU, FULCITE ME FLORIBUS.
A CONCEIT OF MASTER GYSBRECHT, CANON-REGULAR OF SAID JODOCUS-BY-THE-BAR, YPRES CITY.
CANTUQUE, _Virgilius.
_ AND HATH OFTEN BEEN SUNG AT HOCK-TIDE AND FESTIVALES.
GAVISUS ERAM, _Jessides.
_ (It would seem to be a glimpse from the burning of Jacques du Bourg-Mulay, at Paris, A.
D.
1314; as distorted by the refraction from Flemish brain to brain, during the course of a couple of centuries.
) [Molay was Grand Master of the Templars when that order was suppressed in 1312.
] I.
PREADMONISHETH THE ABBOT DEODAET.
The Lord, we look to once for all, Is the Lord we should look at, all at once: He knows not to vary, saith Saint Paul, Nor the shadow of turning, for the nonce.
See him no other than as he is! Give both the infinitudes their due--- Infinite mercy, but, I wis, As infinite a justice too.
[_Organ: plagal-cadence.
_ As infinite a justice too.
II.
ONE SINGETH.
John, Master of the Temple of God, Falling to sin the Unknown Sin, What he bought of Emperor Aldabrod, He sold it to Sultan Saladin: Till, caught by Pope Clement, a-buzzing there, Hornet-prince of the mad wasps' hive, And clipt of his wings in Paris square, They bring him now to be burned alive.
[_And wanteth there grace of lute or clavicithern, ye shall say to confirm him who singeth---_ We bring John now to be burned alive.
III.
In the midst is a goodly gallows built; 'Twixt fork and fork, a stake is stuck; But first they set divers tumbrils a-tilt, Make a trench all round with the city muck; Inside they pile log upon log, good store; Faggots no few, blocks great and small, Reach a man's mid-thigh, no less, no more,--- For they mean he should roast in the sight of all.
CHORUS.
We mean he should roast in the sight of all.
IV.
Good sappy bavins that kindle forthwith; Billets that blaze substantial and slow; Pine-stump split deftly, dry as pith; Larch-heart that chars to a chalk-white glow: Then up they hoist me John in a chafe, Sling him fast like a hog to scorch, Spit in his face, then leap back safe, Sing ``Laudes'' and bid clap-to the torch.
CHORUS.
_Laus Deo_---who bids clap-to the torch.
V.
John of the Temple, whose fame so bragged, Is burning alive in Paris square! How can he curse, if his mouth is gagged? Or wriggle his neck, with a collar there? Or heave his chest, which a band goes round? Or threat with his fist, since his arms are spliced? Or kick with his feet, now his legs are bound? ---Thinks John, I will call upon Jesus Christ.
[_Here one crosseth himself_ VI.
Jesus Christ---John had bought and sold, Jesus Christ---John had eaten and drunk; To him, the Flesh meant silver and gold.
(_Salv reverenti.
_) Now it was, ``Saviour, bountiful lamb, ``I have roasted thee Turks, though men roast me! ``See thy servant, the plight wherein I am! ``Art thou a saviour? Save thou me!'' CHORUS.
'Tis John the mocker cries, ``Save thou me!'' VII.
Who maketh God's menace an idle word? ---Saith, it no more means what it proclaims, Than a damsel's threat to her wanton bird?--- For she too prattles of ugly names.
---Saith, he knoweth but one thing,---what he knows? That God is good and the rest is breath; Why else is the same styled Sharon's rose? Once a rose, ever a rose, he saith.
CHORUS.
O, John shall yet find a rose, he saith! VIII.
Alack, there be roses and roses, John! Some, honied of taste like your leman's tongue: Some, bitter; for why? (roast gaily on!) Their tree struck root in devil's-dung.
When Paul once reasoned of righteousness And of temperance and of judgment to come, Good Felix trembled, he could no less: John, snickering, crook'd his wicked thumb.
CHORUS.
What cometh to John of the wicked thumb? IX.
Ha ha, John plucketh now at his rose To rid himself of a sorrow at heart! Lo,---petal on petal, fierce rays unclose; Anther on anther, sharp spikes outstart; And with blood for dew, the bosom boils; And a gust of sulphur is all its smell; And lo, he is horribly in the toils Of a coal-black giant flower of hell! CHORUS.
What maketh heaven, That maketh hell.
X.
So, as John called now, through the fire amain.
On the Name, he had cursed with, all his life--- To the Person, he bought and sold again--- For the Face, with his daily buffets rife--- Feature by feature It took its place: And his voice, like a mad dog's choking bark, At the steady whole of the Judge's face--- Died.
Forth John's soul flared into the dark.
SUBJOINETH THE ABBOT DEODAET.
God help all poor souls lost in the dark! *1: Fagots.
Written by Li-Young Lee | Create an image from this poem

Eating Alone

 I've pulled the last of the year's young onions.
The garden is bare now.
The ground is cold, brown and old.
What is left of the day flames in the maples at the corner of my eye.
I turn, a cardinal vanishes.
By the cellar door, I wash the onions, then drink from the icy metal spigot.
Once, years back, I walked beside my father among the windfall pears.
I can't recall our words.
We may have strolled in silence.
But I still see him bend that way-left hand braced on knee, creaky-to lift and hold to my eye a rotten pear.
In it, a hornet spun crazily, glazed in slow, glistening juice.
It was my father I saw this morning waving to me from the trees.
I almost called to him, until I came close enough to see the shovel, leaning where I had left it, in the flickering, deep green shade.
White rice steaming, almost done.
Sweet green peas fried in onions.
Shrimp braised in sesame oil and garlic.
And my own loneliness.
What more could I, a young man, want.
Credit: Copyright © 1986 by Li-Young Lee.
Reprinted with the permission of BOA Editions, Ltd.
, www.
boaeditions.
org.
Written by Siegfried Sassoon | Create an image from this poem

A Letter Home

 (To Robert Graves) 

I 

Here I'm sitting in the gloom 
Of my quiet attic room.
France goes rolling all around, Fledged with forest May has crowned.
And I puff my pipe, calm-hearted, Thinking how the fighting started, Wondering when we'll ever end it, Back to hell with Kaiser sent it, Gag the noise, pack up and go, Clockwork soldiers in a row.
I've got better things to do Than to waste my time on you.
II Robert, when I drowse to-night, Skirting lawns of sleep to chase Shifting dreams in mazy light, Somewhere then I'll see your face Turning back to bid me follow Where I wag my arms and hollo, Over hedges hasting after Crooked smile and baffling laughter, Running tireless, floating, leaping, Down your web-hung woods and valleys, Where the glowworm stars are peeping, Till I find you, quiet as stone On a hill-top all alone, Staring outward, gravely pondering Jumbled leagues of hillock-wandering.
III You and I have walked together In the starving winter weather.
We've been glad because we knew Time's too short and friends are few.
We've been sad because we missed One whose yellow head was kissed By the gods, who thought about him Till they couldn't do without him.
Now he's here again; I've been Soldier David dressed in green, Standing in a wood that swings To the madrigal he sings.
He's come back, all mirth and glory, Like the prince in a fairy tory.
Winter called him far away; Blossoms bring him home with May.
IV Well, I know you'll swear it's true That you found him decked in blue Striding up through morning-land With a cloud on either hand.
Out in Wales, you'll say, he marches Arm-in-arm with aoks and larches; Hides all night in hilly nooks, Laughs at dawn in tumbling brooks.
Yet, it's certain, here he teaches Outpost-schemes to groups of beeches.
And I'm sure, as here I stand, That he shines through every land, That he sings in every place Where we're thinking of his face.
V Robert, there's a war in France; Everywhere men bang and blunder, Sweat and swear and worship Chance, Creep and blink through cannon thunder.
Rifles crack and bullets flick, Sing and hum like hornet-swarms.
Bones are smashed and buried quick.
Yet, through stunning battle storms, All the while I watch the spark Lit to guide me; for I know Dreams will triumph, though the dark Scowls above me where I go.
You can hear me; you can mingle Radiant folly with my jingle.
War's a joke for me and you While we know such dreams are true!
Written by Ogden Nash | Create an image from this poem

Two Dogs HaveI

 For years we've had a little dog,
Last year we acquired a big dog;
He wasn't big when we got him,
He was littler than the dog we had.
We thought our little dog would love him, Would help him to become a trig dog, But the new little dog got bigger, And the old little dog got mad.
Now the big dog loves the little dog, But the little dog hates the big dog, The little dog is eleven years old, And the big dog only one; The little dog calls him Schweinhund, The little dog calls him Pig-dog, She grumbles broken curses As she dreams in the August sun.
The big dog's teeth are terrible, But he wouldn't bite the little dog; The little dog wants to grind his bones, But the little dog has no teeth; The big dog is acrobatic, The little dog is a brittle dog; She leaps to grip his jugular, And passes underneath.
The big dog clings to the little dog Like glue and cement and mortar; The little dog is his own true love; But the big dog is to her Like a scarlet rag to a Longhorn, Or a suitcase to a porter; The day he sat on the hornet I distinctly heard her purr.
Well, how can you blame the little dog, Who was once the household darling? He romps like a young Adonis, She droops like an old mustache; No wonder she steals his corner, No wonder she comes out snarling, No wonder she calls him Cochon And even Espèce de vache.
Yet once I wanted a sandwich, Either caviar or cucumber, When the sun had not yet risen And the moon had not yet sank; As I tiptoed through the hallway The big dog lay in slumber, And the little dog slept by the big dog, And her head was on his flank.
Written by Anne Sexton | Create an image from this poem

Hornet

 A red-hot needle
hangs out of him, he steers by it
as if it were a rudder, he
would get in the house any way he could
and then he would bounce from window
to ceiling, buzzing and looking for you.
Do not sleep for he is there wrapped in the curtain.
Do not sleep for he is there under the shelf.
Do not sleep for he wants to sew up your skin, he want to leap into your body like a hammer with a nail, do not sleep he wants to get into your nose and make a transplant, he wants do not sleep he wants to bury your fur and make a nest of knives, he wants to slide under your fingernail and push in a splinter, do not sleep he wants to climb out of the toilet when you sit on it and make a home in the embarrassed hair do not sleep he wants you to walk into him as into a dark fire.
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