The Fly
Little fly, thy summer’s play
My thoughtless hand hath brushed away
Am not I a fly like thee,
Or art thou not a man like me?
For I dance and drink and sing,
Till some blind hand shall brush my wing
If thought is life and strength and breath
And the want of thought is death
Then am I a happy fly,
If I live or if I die. William Blake (1757 – 1827)
Buzz
His Feet are shod with Gauze –
His Helmet, is of Gold
His Breast, a Single Onyx
With Chrysophrase, inlaid
His Labor is a Chant –
His Idleness -a Tune –
Oh, for a Bee’s experience
Of Clovers, and of Noon Emily Dickinson (1830 – 1886)
Two or Three Posies
Two or three posies
With two or three simples –
Two or three noses
With two or three pimples –
Two or three wisemen
And two or three ninnies –
Two or three purses
And two or three guineas –
Two or three raps
At two or three doors –
Two or three naps
Of two or three hours –
Two or three cats
And two or three mice –
Two or three sprats
At a very great price –
Two or three sandies
And two or three tabbies –
Two or three dandies
And two Mrs — mum!
Two or three smiles
And two or three frowns –
Two or three miles
To two or three towns –
Two or three pegs
For two or three bonnets –
Two or three dove’s eggs
To hatch into sonnets. John Keats (1795 – 1821)
At the Piano
Love me and leave me;
What love bids retrieve me?
Can June’s fist grasp May?
Leave me and love me;
Hopes eyed once above me
like spring’s sprouts decay;
Fall as the snow falls
when summer leaves grow false
Cards packed for storm’s play
Nay, say Decay’s self be but last May’s elf,
Wing shifted, eye sheathed,
Changeling in April’s crib rock’d,
Who lets ‘scape rills locked fast since frost breathed,
Skin cast (think!) adderlike
Now blooms burst bladder-like
Bloom frost bequeathed
Ah, how can fear sit and hear as love hears it
Grief’s cracked grate’s screech?
Chance lets the gate sway that opens on hate’s way
And shews on shame’s beach.
Crouched like an imp, sly, change,
Watch sweet love’s shrimps lie
A toothful in each
Old times left perish there’s new time to cherish,
Life just shifts its tune,
As, when the day dies,
Earth, half afraid, eyes the growth of the moon;
Love me and save me, take me or waive me;
Death takes one so
