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.

At the Theatre (To the lady behind me)

                                 [Poem]
                    At the Theatre (To the lady behind me)

Dear Madam, you have seen this play :
I ever saw it till today.
You know the details of the plot
But, let me tell you, I do not.

The author seeks to keep from me
The murderer's identity,
And you are not a friend of his
If you keep shouting who it is.

The actors in their funny way
Have several funny things to say,
But they do not amuse me more
If you have said them just before.

The merit of the drama lies,
I understand, in some surprise;
But the surprise now must be small 
Since you have just foretold all.

The lady you have brought with you 
is, I infer, a half-wit, too,
But can understand the piece
Without assistance from your niece.

In short, foul woman, it would suit 
Me just as well if you were mute,
In fact, to make my meaning plain,
I trust you will not speak again.

And-may I add one human touch ?-
Don't breathe upon my neck so much.
                                            -A P Herbert
                           [About Poem]
The chief interest of a story, play or film lies sometimes in its element of suspense and mystery. And if the mystery or suspense is revealed to us beforehand, all its charm is spoiled.
Some people, who have seen a play or a movie earlier, are often in the habit of talking aloud while watching it again. They keep talking and telling what is going to happen next. Thus, they ruin the charm for all those who are sitting around watching it for the fist time.

Somebody's Mother

                                [Poem]
                           Somebody's Mother

The woman was old and ragged grey,
And bent with the chill of a winter's day;
The street was wet with the recent snow,
And the woman's feet were aged and slow.

She stood at the crossing and waited long
Alone, uncared gor, amid the throng 
Of human beings who passed her by,
Nor heeded the glance for her anxious eye.

Down the street with laughter and shout,
Glad in the freedom of school let out,
Come the boys like a flock of sheep 
Hailing the snow, piled white and deep.

Past the woman so old and grey,
Hastened the children on their way ;
Nor offered a helping hand to her,
So meek, so timid, afraid to stir :
Lest the carriage wheels or the horse's feet
Should crowd her dowmn the slippery street.

At last came one of the merry troop,
The gayest laddies of all the group,
He paused beside her, and whispered low;
I'll help you across, if you wish to go'.

Her aged hand on his strong young arm
She placed, and so, without hurt or harm,
He guided the trembling feet along,
Proud that his own were firm and strong.

Then back again to his friends he went,
His young heart happy and well content.
'She's somebody's mother, boys, you know,
For all she's aged and poor and slow,

And I hope some fellow will lend a hand,
To help my mother, you understand,
If ever she's poor and grey,
When her own dear boy is away,'

And somebody's mother bowed low her head.
In her home that night, and the prayer she said
Was : 'God be kind to the noble boy
Who is somebody's son and pride and joy !'
                                                -Marry Dow Brine
                           [About Poem]

It is our moral duty to help those who are poor, old and in need. We can help them with money. But there is another kind of help which is even greater than money. It is sympathy. If we do a kind act, it gives us inner joy. We are blessed both by God and the person who receives our sympathy and help.

This poem describes how a little boy helped a poor old woman to across a busy road. He saw in her the image of his own mother when she would grow old. This little act of kindness gave the boy deep joy. He also earned the old woman's blessings. 

mail@god.com

                             [Poem]
                          mail@god.com

As I boot up my PC,
My modem dialing next to me,
I ask the Lord, give me a sign...
Will I ever get on-line?????

If you'd kindly let me through,
I'll byte no more than I can chew.

I'll surf the waves amid the Net,
With my mouse, my loyal pet.

And through each window I will see.
The websitcs that are offered me. 

Resisting any chat room's lure,
I'll download only what is pure.

If system-errors don't prevail.
I'll vow to read all my e-mail.

If you save me from a crash,
I'll dump my games into the trash.

Just please don't take my CD-ROM!
Thank you Lord, God Bless.com
                                   -Marry Mathew
                             

Camel's Complaint

                             [Poem]
                        Camel's Complaint

Canary-birds feed on sugar and seed,
Parrots have crackers to crunch;
And as for poodles, they tell me the noodles 
Have chicken and cream for their lunch,
But there's never a question 
About my digestion-
Anything does for me.

Cats, you are aware, can repose in a chair,
Chickens can roost upon rails;
Puppies are able to sleep in a stable,
And oysters can slumber in pails,
But no one supposes 
A poor camel dozes-
Any place does for me.

Lambs are enclosed where it's never exposed,
Coops are constructed for hens;
Kittens are treated in houses well heated,
And pigs are protected by pens
But a camel comes handy
Wherever it's sandy-
Anywhere does for me.

People would laugh if you rode a giraffe,
Or mounted the back of an ox;
It's nobody's habit to ride on a rabbit,
Or tyr to bestraddle a fox,
But as for a camel, he's 
Ridden by families-
Any load does for me,
A snake is as round as a hole in the ground,

And no alligator could ever be straight
Than lizards that live in a creek;
But a camel's all lumpy,
And bumpy and humpy-
Any shape does for me.
                                           -Charles E. Carryl
                               [About Poem]
The poem establishes the camel's uniqueness by comparing it to various other creatures.

The Nightingale

                                [Poem]
                             The Nightingale

There lived a Chinese Emperor
(Oh, very long ago !)
In a palace built of porcelain
As white as driven snow;
And on its walls were painted,
In colours bright and gay,
Rare birds that never sang a song
And never flew away !

But past the royal gardens,
In a forest by the sea,
There dwelt a little Nightingle,
Which sang delightfully.
'What is this bird?' the Emperor cried,
'That causes such a fuss?
Command it to appear at court
And sing its song to us !'

And when the little Nightingale 
Sang from a golden perch,
The courtiers listened silently,
As if they were in church;
And dowm their master's royal cheek
They watched a tear-drop fall;
And knew he wept for pure delight,
And not for grief at all. 

The bird was made 'Court Chorister'
But might go home each day,
(Although they held it by a string,
Lest it should fly away).
One day the emperor received 
A present from a King-
A clockwork bird. They wound it up.
And it would really sing.

Its outspread wings were made of gold,
Spangeled with rubies red,
It wore a crown of diamonds
Upon its tiny head.
They wound it up, and wound it up
And listened night and day;
So the little living Nightingale.
Unnoticed, flew away.

And then one day the clockwork bird,
In the middle of a song,

Stopped all at once, and went Whir-r-r!
Its clockwork had gone wrong!
And nobody could mend the thing,
However much they tried;
So in a cupboard, on a shelf,
The bird was laid aside.

Years passed; the Emperor fell ill,
And, as he tossed in pain,
Sighed, 'If my Nightingale would sing,
I should get well again.'
But all the doctors stood around
Shaking their heads in sorrow,
For they believed the Emperor 
Would surely die tomorrow.

When it was whispered far and wide,
'The Emperor's very ill.'
The Nightingale heard too, and cried,
'I bear him no ill-will;
I'll go and sing my sweetest song
Upon his window-sill.'

And when the courtiers crept back
In fear, as day was dawning,
The emperor sat up in bed,
And wished them all 'Good Morning'.
                                       -Charlotte Druitt Cole
                             [About Poem]
Music has magical effect on all living beings. In this poem notice how the music of the nightingale works a miracle and saves a dying emperor.

Truth

                               [Poem]
                               Truth

Sticks and stones may break my bones,
but words can also hurt me.
Stones and sticks break only skin.
While words are ghosts that haunt me.

Slant and curved the word-swords fall 
to pierce and stick inside me.
Bats and bricks may ache through bones,
but words can mortify me.

Pain from words has left its scar 
on mind and heart that's tender.
Cuts and bruises now have healed;
It's words that I remember.
                                  -Barrie Wade
                          [About Poem]
This poem gives an idea about the power of words. Generally people think that it is only the sticks and stones that hurt people. It is not true. If you are curious, read the poem.

ON HIS BLINDNESS

                               ON HIS BLINDNESS

WHEN I consider how my light is spent
E're half my days, in this dark world and wide,
And that one Talent which is death to hide,
Lodg'd with me useless, though my Soul more bent

To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, least he returning chide,
Doth God exact day-labour, light deny'd,
I fondly ask; But patience to prevent 

That murmur, soon replies, God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts, who best 
Bear his milde yoak, they serve him best, his state

Is kingly. Thousands at his bidding speed
And post o're Land and Ocean without rest:
They also serve who only stand and waite.
                                               -John Milton

We have fewer friends than we imagine

                                [Poem]
We have fewer friends than 
we imagine,
but more than 
we know.
* * *
We are all inclined 
to judge
ourselves by our ideals,
others by their acts.
* * *
God, grant me the serenity 
to accept the things I cannot change,
courage to change the things I can, 
and wisdom to know 
the difference.

I went begging from door to door on a vilage path

                                [Poem]
I went begging from door to door on a village path,
When your golden chariot appeared
              in the distance like a grand dream,
And I wondered who was this king of all kings !
My hopes rose high
              and I thought my bad days were over 
I stood waiting for alms
                and for wealth to be scattered all over.
Your chariot stopped where I stood.
You glanced at me
         and came down with a smile.
I felt the luck of my life had come at last.
Then all of a sudden,
                 you held out your hand and said:
                "What have you to give to me?"
Ah ! What a royal joke ! 
               to open your palm to a beggar to beg !
I was confused and stood undecided.
And then from my little bag,
I took out two grains of corn,
                and gave them to you.
But how great was my surprise,
              When at the day's end
I emptied my bag on the floor, to find 
Two little grains of gold in the heap.
I bitterly wept and wished 
                  That I had had the heart
                  to give you all I had.

Love

                                [Poem]
My love is like a red, red rose 
That's newly sprung in June :
My love is like the melody
That's sweetly played in tune.
        Till all the seas go dry, my dear,
        And the rocks melt with the sun:
        And I will love three stil, my dear,
        While the sands of life shall run.

Chicken

                                [Poem]

Said the first little chicken 
To her darling mum
'I wish I could find 
A fat little worm'. 

'Take a circle', said their mother 
 From the green garden patch,
 If you want some breakfast 
 Just come here and scratch !

Said the other chicken 
With a hungry brain 
'I wish I could find
A fat little grain'.

A teacher is a friend.

                              [Poem]

A teacher is a friend
Who tries to to give you wings 
By teaching English, reading
And fun things.
                     A teacher is like another parent 
                     So caring and makes sure
                     You have no troubles and 
                     For all problems a cure.

Be the Best

                                [Poem]
                             Be the Best
If you can't be a pine on the top of the hill,
         Be a scrub in the valley - but be 
The best little scrub by the side of the rill
         Be a bush, if you can't be a tree.

If you can't bea a bush, be a bit of the grass,
          And some highly happier make
If you can't be a muskie, than just be a bass
          But the liveliest bass in the lakev !

We can't all be captains; we've got to be crew,
         There's something for all of us here.
There's big work to do and there's lesser to do 
          And the task we must do is the near.

If you can't be a highway, then just be a trail,
         If you can't be the sun, be a star
It isn't by the size that you win or you fail
           Be the best of whatever you are!
                                              -Douglas Malloch

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

                                [Poem]
                 Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

Whose woods these are I think I know,
His house is in the village though,
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
         My little horse must think it queer 
         To stop without a farm house near,
         Between the woods and frozen lake
         The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake 
To ask if there is some mistake,
The only other sound's the sweep 
Of easy wind and downy flake.
         The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
         But I have promises to keep,
         And miles to go before I sleep
         And miles to go before I sleep.  
                                               -Robert Frost
                    

Trees are the Kindest Things I Know

                              [Poem]
                    Trees are the Kindest Things I know

Trees are the kindest things I know,
They do no harm, they simply grow
And spread a shade for sleepy cows,
And gather birds among the boughs.

                They are the first when day's begun
                To touch the beams of morning sun,
                They are last to hold the light
                When evening changes into night.

And when a moon floats on the sky
They hum a drowsy lullaby
Of sleepy children long ago
Trees are the kindest things I know.
                                               -Harry Behn
*To be memorised

                      

Growing

                                [Poem]
                               Growing

I'am leaving now to slay the foe
Fight the battles, high and low.
I'am leaving, Mother, hear me go !
Please wish me luck today.

         I've grown my wings, I want to fly,
         Seize my victories where they lie.
         I'm going, Mom, but please don't cry
         Just let me find my way.

I want to see and touch and hear,
Though there are dangers, there are fears.
I'II smile my smiles and dry my tears
Please let me speak my say.

              I'm off to find my world, my dreams,
              Carve my niche, sew my seams,
              Remember, as I sail my streams 
              I'II love you, all the way.
                                                  -Brooke Mueller
*To be memorised

A Fairy Went Market Once

                              [Poem]

                      1. A Fairy Went to Market Once

A fairy went to market once

She bought a little fish

She put it in a crysral bowl 

Upon a golden dish.

An hour she sat in wonderment 

And watched its silver gleam,

And then she gently took it up 

And slipped it in a stream.

A fairy went to market once

She bought a coloured bird.

It sang the sweetest, shrillest song

That ever she had heard.

She sat beside its painted cage

And listened half the day.

And then she opened wide the door

And let it fly away.

A fairy went to market once 

She bought a gentle mouse 

To take her tiny messeages

To keep her tiny house.

All day she kept its busy feet

Pit-patting to and fro 

And then she kissed its silken ears,

Thanked it and let it go.

                                                   -Rose Flyman 

*To be Memorised

Love

                                [Poem]

                                 Love

I love you 

Not only for what you are 

But for what I am when I am with you.

I love you 

Not only for what you have made yourself

But for what you are making of me.

I love you 

Because you have done more 

Than any creed could have done to make me good 

And more than any fate.

Could have done to make me happy.

You have done it 

Without a touch

Without a word 

Without a sign

You have done it by being yourself.

Perhaps that is what 

Being a friend means, after all.

                                           -Roy Croft