DEATH BE NOT PROUD

                                 [Poem]
                            DEATH BE NOT PROUD

                             TEXT OF THE POEM

Death be not proud, though some have called thee 
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow 
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee go,
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.
Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings and desperate men,
And dost with poison war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy' or charm can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?
Our short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.
                                               -John Donne

THE PULLEY

                                [Poem]
                               THE PULLEY

                              TEXT OF THE POEM
When God at first made man,
Having a glass of blessings standing by,
"Let us", said he, "pour on him all we can.
Let the world's riches, which dispersed lie,
Contract into a span.

So strength first made a way;
Then beauty flowed, then, wisdom, honour, pleasure.
When almost all was out, God made a stay,
Perceiving that, alone of all his pleasure,
Rest in bottom lay.

"For if I should", said he,
"Bestow this jewel also on my creature,
He would adore my gifts instead of me,
And rest in Nature, not the God of Nature;
So both should losers be.

"Yet let him keep the rest,
But keep them with repining restlessness;
Let him be rich and weary, that at least,
If goodness lead him not, yet weariness
May toss him to my breast.
                                        -George Herbert
                       

ON HIS BEING ARRIVED AT THE AGE OF TWENTY-THREE

                                [Poem]
                        ON HIS BEING ARRIVED AT
                        THE AGE OF TWENTY-THREE
                        
                        TEXT OF THE POEM

How soon hath time, the subtle thief of youth,
Stolen on his wing my three and twentieth year!
My hasting days fly on with full career,
But my late spring no bud or blossom sheweth.

Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth,
That I to manhood am arrived so near,
And inward ripeness doth much less appear 
That some more timely happy spirits in dueth.

Yet be it less or more, soon or slow,
It shall be still in strictest measure even
To that same lot however mean or high,

Towards which time leads me and the will of heaven
All is, if I have grace to use it so,
As ever in my great taskmaster's eye.
                                           -JOhn Milton 

CONFESSION OF A BORN SPECTATOR

                                 [Poem]
                       CONFESSIONS OF A BORN SPECTATOR

With all my heart do I admire
Athletes who sweat for fun or hire,
Who take the field in gaudy pomp.
And maim each other as they romp.
My limp and bashful spirit feeds
On other people's heroic deeds.

                                  Now A runs ninety yards to score
                                  B knocks the champion to the floor.
                                  C risking vertebrae and spine,
                                  Lashes his steed across the line.
                                  You'd think my ego it would please
                                  To swap position with one of these.

Well, ego might be pleased enough,
But zealous athletes play so rough,
They do not ever, in their dealings
Consider one another's feelings.
I'm glad that when my struggle begins
Twixt prudence and ego, prudence wins.

                        Athletes, I'll drink to you or eat with you.
                        Or anything except compete with you.
                        Buy tickets worth your radium.
                        To watch you gamble in a stadium
                        And reasure myself anew
                        That you're not me and I'm not you.(Abridged)

                                           -Ogdam Nash  

WOODMAN SPARE THAT TREE

                                [Poem]
                        WOODMAN,SPARE THAT TREE

Woodman, spare that tree!
Touch not a single bough!
In youth it sheltered me 
And I'll protect it now.

'Twas my forefather's hand
That placed it near his coat;
There, woodman, let it stand,
Thy ax shall harm it not.

That old familiar tree;
Whoose glory and renown 
Are spread o'er land and sea-
And wouldst thou hew it down?

Woodman, forbear thy stroke!
Cut not its earth-bound ties;
Oh, spare that aged oak
Now towering to the skies!

When but an idle boy,
I sought its grateful shade;
In all their gushing joy
Here, too, my sisters played.

My mother kissed me here;
My mother pressed my hand-
Forgive this foolish tear,
But let that old oak stand.
                                       -George Pope Morris

The Mountain and the Squirrel

                                [Poem]
                    The Mountain and the Squirrel

The mountain and the squirrel
Had a quarrel,
And the former called the latter "little prig";
Bun replied,

"You are doubtless very big;
But all sorts of things and weather 
Must be taken in together 
To make up a year 

And a sphere.
And I think it no disgrace
To occupy my place
If I am not so large as you, 

You are not so small as you I.
And not half so spry;
I'll not deny you make
A very pretty squirrel track.

Talents differ; all is well and wisely put;
If I cannot carry forests on my back
Neither can you crack a nut,"
                                [About Poem]
The poem focuses on the fact that each individual has his own place in the world. None is inferior to the other. It is said, 'Every star is great in its own orbit'.

The Ant and the Cricket

                                 [Poem]
                         The Ant and the Cricket

A silly young cricket accustomed to sing
Through the warm, sunny months of gay summer and spring,
Began to complain, when he found that at home
His cupboard was empty and winter was come.

Not a crumb to be found 
On the snow covered ground;
Not a flower could he see
Not a leef on a tree:

'Oh, what will become,' says the cricket, 'of me ?'
At last by starvation and famine made bold,
All dripping with wet and all trembling with cold,
Away he set off to a misery ant,

To see if, to keep him alive, he would grant 
Him selter from rain:
A mouthful of grain
He wished only to borrow.
He'd repay it tomorrow :

If not, he must die of starvation and sorrow.
Says the ant to the cricket, 'I'm your servant and friend,
But we ants never borrow, we ants never lend ;
But tell me, dear sir, did you lay nothing by 
When the weather was warm ?' Said the cricket, 'Not I.
'My heart was so light,

That I sang day and night,
For all nature looked gay'.
'You sang, sir, you say ?

'Go then', said the ant, 'and dance winter away.'
Thus ending, he hastily lifted the wicket
And out of the door turned the poor little cricket.
Though this is a fable the moral is good :
If you live without work, you must live without food.
                          [About Poem]
The cricket are known to be carefree and easy-going insects. Here ia a story of a cricket who enjoys himself a lot and later on finds himself in difficulty. Read the poem and see how the ant teaches him a lesson.