Best Famous Pit A Pat Poems

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

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• All Famous Pit A Pat Poems

Written by William Cowper | The Retired Cat A poet's cat, sedate and grave As poet well could wish to have, Was much addicted to inquire For nooks to which she might retire, And where, secure as mouse in chink, She might repose, or sit and think. I know not where she caught the trick-- Nature perhaps herself had cast her In such a mould [lang f]philosophique[lang e], Or else she learn'd it of her master. Sometimes ascending, debonair, An apple-tree or lofty pear, Lodg'd with convenience in the fork, She watch'd the gardener at his work; Sometimes her ease and solace sought In an old empty wat'ring-pot; There, wanting nothing save a fan To seem some nymph in her sedan, Apparell'd in exactest sort, And ready to be borne to court. But love of change, it seems, has place Not only in our wiser race; Cats also feel, as well as we, That passion's force, and so did she. Her climbing, she began to find, Expos'd her too much to the wind, And the old utensil of tin Was cold and comfortless within: She therefore wish'd instead of those Some place of more serene repose, Where neither cold might come, nor air Too rudely wanton with her hair, And sought it in the likeliest mode Within her master's snug abode. A drawer, it chanc'd, at bottom lin'd With linen of the softest kind, With such as merchants introduce From India, for the ladies' use-- A drawer impending o'er the rest, Half-open in the topmost chest, Of depth enough, and none to spare, Invited her to slumber there; Puss with delight beyond expression Survey'd the scene, and took possession. Recumbent at her ease ere long, And lull'd by her own humdrum song, She left the cares of life behind, And slept as she would sleep her last, When in came, housewifely inclin'd The chambermaid, and shut it fast; By no malignity impell'd, But all unconscious whom it held. Awaken'd by the shock, cried Puss, "Was ever cat attended thus! The open drawer was left, I see, Merely to prove a nest for me. For soon as I was well compos'd, Then came the maid, and it was clos'd. How smooth these kerchiefs, and how sweet! Oh, what a delicate retreat! I will resign myself to rest Till Sol, declining in the west, Shall call to supper, when, no doubt, Susan will come and let me out." The evening came, the sun descended, And puss remain'd still unattended. The night roll'd tardily away (With her indeed 'twas never day), The sprightly morn her course renew'd, The evening gray again ensued, And puss came into mind no more Than if entomb'd the day before. With hunger pinch'd, and pinch'd for room, She now presag'd approaching doom, Nor slept a single wink, or purr'd, Conscious of jeopardy incurr'd. That night, by chance, the poet watching Heard an inexplicable scratching; His noble heart went pit-a-pat And to himself he said, "What's that?" He drew the curtain at his side, And forth he peep'd, but nothing spied; Yet, by his ear directed, guess'd Something imprison'd in the chest, And, doubtful what, with prudent care Resolv'd it should continue there. At length a voice which well he knew, A long and melancholy mew, Saluting his poetic ears, Consol'd him, and dispell'd his fears: He left his bed, he trod the floor, He 'gan in haste the drawers explore, The lowest first, and without stop The rest in order to the top; For 'tis a truth well known to most, That whatsoever thing is lost, We seek it, ere it come to light, In ev'ry cranny but the right. Forth skipp'd the cat, not now replete As erst with airy self-conceit, Nor in her own fond apprehension A theme for all the world's attention, But modest, sober, cured of all Her notions hyperbolical, And wishing for a place of rest Anything rather than a chest. Then stepp'd the poet into bed, With this reflection in his head:MORAL Beware of too sublime a sense Of your own worth and consequence. The man who dreams himself so great, And his importance of such weight, That all around in all that's done Must move and act for him alone, Will learn in school of tribulation The folly of his expectation.

Written by Carl Sandburg | Caboose Thoughts IT’S going to come out all right—do you know? The sun, the birds, the grass—they know. They get along—and we’ll get along. Some days will be rainy and you will sit waiting And the letter you wait for won’t come, And I will sit watching the sky tear off gray and gray And the letter I wait for won’t come. There will be ac-ci-dents. I know ac-ci-dents are coming. Smash-ups, signals wrong, washouts, trestles rotten, Red and yellow ac-ci-dents. But somehow and somewhere the end of the run The train gets put together again And the caboose and the green tail lights Fade down the right of way like a new white hope. I never heard a mockingbird in Kentucky Spilling its heart in the morning. I never saw the snow on Chimborazo. It’s a high white Mexican hat, I hear. I never had supper with Abe Lincoln. Nor a dish of soup with Jim Hill. But I’ve been around. I know some of the boys here who can go a little. I know girls good for a burst of speed any time. I heard Williams and Walker Before Walker died in the bughouse. I knew a mandolin player Working in a barber shop in an Indiana town, And he thought he had a million dollars. I knew a hotel girl in Des Moines. She had eyes; I saw her and said to myself The sun rises and the sun sets in her eyes. I was her steady and her heart went pit-a-pat. We took away the money for a prize waltz at a Brotherhood dance. She had eyes; she was safe as the bridge over the Mississippi at Burlington; I married her. Last summer we took the cushions going west. Pike’s Peak is a big old stone, believe me. It’s fastened down; something you can count on. It’s going to come out all right—do you know? The sun, the birds, the grass—they know. They get along—and we’ll get along.

Written by Robert William Service | A Domestic Tragedy Clorinda met me on the way As I came from the train; Her face was anything but gay, In fact, suggested pain. "Oh hubby, hubby dear!" she cried, "I've awful news to tell. . . ." "What is it, darling?" I replied; "Your mother -- is she well?" "Oh no! oh no! it is not that, It's something else," she wailed, My heart was beating pit-a-pat, My ruddy visage paled. Like lightning flash in heaven's dome The fear within me woke: "Don't say," I cried, "our little home Has all gone up in smoke!" She shook her head. Oh, swift I clasped And held her to my breast; "The children! Tell me quick," I gasped, "Believe me, it is best." Then, then she spoke; 'mid sobs I caught These words of woe divine: "It's coo-coo-cook has gone and bought A new hat just like mine."

Written by John Berryman | Dream Song 121: Grief is fatiguing. He is out of it Grief is fatiguing. He is out of it, the whole humiliating Human round, out of this & that. He made a-many hearts go pit-a-pat who now need never mind his nostril-hair nor a critical error laid bare. He endured fifty years. He was Randall Jarrell and wrote a-many books & he wrote well. Peace to the bearded corpse. His last book was his best. His wives loved him. He saw in the forest something coming, grim, but did not change his purpose. Honest & cruel, peace now to his soul. He never loved his body, being full of dents. A wrinkled peace to this good man. Henry is half in love with one of his students and the sad process continues to the whole as it swarmed & began.

Written by Paul Laurence Dunbar | Blue Standin' at de winder, Feelin' kind o' glum, Listenin' to de raindrops Play de kettle drum, Lookin' crost de medders Swimmin' lak a sea; Lawd 'a' mussy on us, What's de good o' me? Can't go out a-hoein', Wouldn't ef I could; Groun' too wet fu' huntin', Fishin' ain't no good. Too much noise fo' sleepin', No one hyeah to chat; Des mus' stan' an' listen To dat pit-a-pat. Hills is gittin' misty,, Valley's gittin' dahk; Watch-dog's 'mence a-howlin', Rathah have 'em ba'k Dan a-moanin' solemn Somewhaih out o' sight; Rain-crow des a-chucklin'— Dis is his delight. Mandy, bring my banjo, [Pg 254]Bring de chillen in, Come in f'om de kitchen, I feel sick ez sin. Call in Uncle Isaac, Call Aunt Hannah, too, Tain't no use in talkin', Chile, I's sholy blue.