If in future I my lyre Ever from its rack remove, And go plucking with my plectrum Anything I cannot prove,
In little tasks of daily life Which every man must do, Like climbing up and down a hill, Or counting two and two,
God give me strength In making a rhyme To limit the length, To stop it in time.
Now the King-less Jews, I guess, Are check-mated, And their little game of chess Terminated.
The inn that would not bed and board The Blessed Mother of Our Lord,
I know that God is infinite, But like Him not that way a bit; I love Him, yes, but like Him less;
Now what’s the good looking like good-looking lasses Who are just as good-looking in looking-glasses, Or caring for curls that can be cultivated
When we were young, we looked on them as creatures Inalterable in nature, as in form and features; Diffidently to be approached, and shyly to be attended, Extravagantly to be admired, and valiantly to be defended.
(a Christmas card by a British playwright) A stupid horse and cow, they say, Called for convenience, ox and ass, Stood in a stable munching hay: A rather stupid sort of grass.
I cannot go it — go it you who can: The celluloid survival of a man; The play that is acted
While candles on the altar-shelf Between the ferns and flowers Were burning, and the Carmelites Chanted the Little Hours: —
There was a lady made of gold, And at an auction she was sold. She was a little lady wrought In metal molded by a thought,
When Billy, the butcher-boy’s meat-chopping instrument Chipped off the tip of his thumb, At that very moment did Lily, the pantry-maid, In for a cutlet come;
It is not wise to dally with despair. It should be promptly taken out to air — Follow the route from here to Railroad Square.
After the shower I went abroad: All the wells in the world were full; Lightning elapsed in the goldenrod, Thunder subsided inside the bull.