Thoughts on reading, writing, and publishing
O TO BE AN OSTRICH
The ostrich
like Shakespeare
believes there is nothing
good or bad
but thinking
makes it so.All problems
he has found
by taking his head
out of the ground
and looking
for them.The solving
obviously
is a matter of foot
going faster than thought
to avoid
being caught.Such logic
— Elizabeth Bartlett
of conscience
may well be envied—
for who can dispute
what can not be questioned
or proved?
There came to my window one morning in Spring
A sweet little Robin; she came there to sing.
The tune that she sang, it was prettier far
Than any I heard on the flute or guitar.Her wings she was spreading to soar far away,
Then resting a moment seemed sweetly to say:
“Oh happy, how happy the world seems to be!
Awake, Little Girl and be happy with me!”But just as she finished her beautiful song,
— Anonymous
A thoughtless young man with a gun came along.
He killed and he carried my sweet bird away,
She no more will sing at the dawn of the day.
As it fell upon a day
— R. Barnefield
In the merry month of May,
Sitting in a pleasant shade
Which a grove of myrtles made,
Beasts did leap and birds did sing,
Trees did grow and plants did spring,
Every thing did banish moan
Save the Nightingale alone.
She, poor bird, as all forlorn,
Lean’d her breast against a thorn,
And there sung the dolefullest ditty,
That to hear it was great pity.
Fie, fie, fie, now would she cry;
Tereu, tereu, by and by:
That to hear her so complain
Scarce I could from tears refrain;
For her griefs so lively shown
Made me think upon mine own.
—Ah! thought I, thou mourn’st in vain,
None takes pity on thy pain:
Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee,
Ruthless beasts, they will not cheer thee;
King Pandion, he is dead,
All thy friends are lapp’d in lead:
All thy fellow birds do sing
Careless of thy sorrowing:
Even so, poor bird, like thee,
None alive will pity me.
Cold winter has come,
And the cruel winds blow—
The trees are all leafless and brown;
These two pretty robins,
Oh, where shall they go
To shelter their little brown heads from the snow?
Just look at the flakes coming down.But see, they have found a snug shelter at last,
And hark, how they talk, while the storm whistles past:Says Polly to Dicky,
–Anonymous
“You’re nearest the door,
And you are the gentleman, too:
Just peep out and see
When the storm will be o’er;
Be-cause, if the weather’s as bad as before,
I think we will stay, do not you?”
I know the song that the bluebird is singing,
Out in the apple-tree where he is swinging;
Brave little fellow, the skies may look dreary;
Nothing cares he while his heart is so cheery.Hark! how the music leaps out from his throat,
Hark! was there ever so merry a note?
Listen awhile and you’ll hear what he’s saying,
Up in the apple-tree swinging and swaying.“Dear little blossoms down under the snow,
You must be weary of winter, I know;
Hark, while I sing you a message of cheer;
Summer is coming and spring-time is here!“Little white snowdrop! I pray you arise;
–Emily Huntington Miller
Bright yellow crocus! come, open your eyes;
Sweet little violets, hid from the cold,
Put on your mantles of purple and gold;
Daffodils! daffodils! say, do you hear?—
Summer is coming and spring-time is here!”
