A Toast to the Men by Edgar Albert Guest

Here's to the men! Since Adam's time
They've always been the same;
Whenever anything goes wrong,
The woman is to blame.
From early morn to late at night,
The men fault-finders are;
They blame us if they oversleep,
Or if they miss a car.
They blame us if, beneath the bed,
Their collar buttons roll;
They blame us if the fire is out
Or if there is no coal.
They blame us if they cut themselves
While shaving, and they swear
That we're to blame if they decide
To go upon a tear.

Here's to the men, the perfect men!
Who never are at fault;
They blame us if they chance to get
The pepper for the salt.
They blame us if their business fails,
Or back a losing horse;
And when it rains on holidays
The fault is ours, of course.
They blame us when they fall in love,
And when they married get;
Likewise they blame us when they're sick,
And when they fall in debt.
For everything that crisscross goes
They say we are to blame;
But, after all, here's to the men,
We love them just the same!

To read in the morning and at night... by Bertolt Brecht

To read in the morning and at night
My love
Has told me
That he needs me.

That's why
I take good care of myself
Watch out where I'm going and
Fear that any drop of rain
Might kill me

A Seed by William Allingham

See how a Seed, which Autumn flung down, 
And through the Winter neglected lay, 
Uncoils two little green leaves and two brown, 
With tiny root taking hold on the clay.

As, lifting and strengthening day by day, 
It pushes red branchless, sprouts new leaves, 
And cell after cell the Power in it weaves.

Out of the storehouse of soil and clime, 
To fashion a Tree in due course of time; 
Tree with rough bark and boughs' expansion, 
Where the Crow can build his mansion, 
Or a Man, in some new May, 
Lie under whispering leaves and say, 

"Are the ills of one's life so very bad 
When a Green Tree makes me deliciously glad?" 

As I do now. 

But where shall I be 
When this little Seed is a tall green Tree?

Memory Of Sun by Anna Akhmatova

Memory of sun seeps from the heart.

Grass grows yellower.
Faintly if at all the early snowflakes
Hover, hover.

Water becoming ice is slowing in
The narrow channels.
Nothing at all will happen here again,
Will ever happen.

Against the sky the willow spreads a fan
The silk's torn off.
Maybe it's better I did not become
Your wife.

Memory of sun seeps from the heart.
What is it? -- Dark?
Perhaps! Winter will have occupied us
In the night.

Longing by Matthew Arnold

Come to me in my dreams, and then
By day I shall be well again!
For so the night will more than pay
The hopeless longing of the day.

Come, as thou cam'st a thousand times,
A messenger from radiant climes,
And smile on thy new world, and be
As kind to others as to me!

Or, as thou never cam'st in sooth,
Come now, and let me dream it truth,
And part my hair, and kiss my brow,
And say, My love why sufferest thou?

Come to me in my dreams, and then
By day I shall be well again!
For so the night will more than pay
The hopeless longing of the day.


(This poem was written in the early 1800's.  Funny how some things do not change in our human condition}

Those Winter Sundays by Robert Hayden

Sundays too my father got up early
And put his clothes on in the blueback cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.

I'd wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he'd call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,

Speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love's austere and lonely offices?

The True Knowledge by Oscar Wilde

Thou knowest all; I seek in vain
What lands to till or sow with seed -
The land is black with briar and weed,
Nor cares for falling tears or rain.

Thou knowest all; I sit and wait
With blinded eyes and hands that fail,
Till the last lifting of the veil
And the first opening of the gate.

Thou knowest all; I cannot see.
I trust I shall not live in vain,
I know that we shall meet again
In some divine eternity.

Petals by Amy Lowell

Life is a stream
On which we strew
Petal by petal the flower of our heart;
The end lost in dream,
They float past our view,
We only watch their glad, early start.


Freighted with hope,
Crimsoned with joy,
We scatter the leaves of our opening rose;
Their widening scope,
Their distant employ,
We never shall know. 


And the stream as it flows
Sweeps them away,
Each one is gone
Ever beyond into infinite ways.


We alone stay
While years hurry on,
The flower fared forth, 
though its fragrance still stays.

And the Moon and the Stars and the World by Charles Bukowski

Long walks at night-- 
that's what good for the soul: 
peeking into windows 
watching tired housewives 
trying to fight off 
their beer-maddened husbands.

To You by Walt Whitman

LET us twain walk aside from the rest;
 
Now we are together privately, 
do you discard ceremony, 

Come! vouchsafe to me what has yet been vouchsafed to none—


Tell me the whole story, 
Tell me what you would not tell your brother, wife, husband, or physician.

All The World's a Stage by William Shakespeare

All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;

They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,

His acts being seven ages. 
At first, the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.

Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. 


And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. 


Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth. 


And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;And so he plays his part. 


The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. 


Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

Dream Within a Dream by Edgar Allen Poe

Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow--


You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;

Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?

All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand--

How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep--while I weep!

O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?

O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?

Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?

If Your Forget Me by Pablo Neruda

I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.


Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.


If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.


If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.


But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine

Life is Fine by Langston Hughes

I went down to the river,
I set down on the bank.
I tried to think but couldn't,
So I jumped in and sank.

I came up once and hollered!
I came up twice and cried!
If that water hadn't a-been so cold
I might've sunk and died.

But it was Cold in that water! It was cold!

I took the elevator
Sixteen floors above the ground.
I thought about my baby
And thought I would jump down.

I stood there and I hollered!
I stood there and I cried!
If it hadn't a-been so high
I might've jumped and died.

But it was High up there! It was high!

So since I'm still here livin',
I guess I will live on.
I could've died for love--
But for livin' I was born

Though you may hear me holler,
And you may see me cry--
I'll be dogged, sweet baby,
If you gonna see me die.

Life is fine! Fine as wine! Life is fine!

Still I Rise by Maya Angelou

You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don't you take it awful hard
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin' in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I'll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.

The Sound of Trees by Robert Frost

I wonder about the trees. 
Why do we wish to bear 

Forever the noise of these 
More than another noise 
So close to our dwelling place? 

We suffer them by the day 
Till we lose all measure of pace, 
And fixity in our joys, 
And acquire a listening air. 

They are that that talks of going 
But never gets away; 
And that talks no less for knowing, 
As it grows wiser and older, 
That now it means to stay. 

My feet tug at the floor 
And my head sways to my shoulder 
Sometimes when I watch trees sway, 
From the window or the door. 

I shall set forth for somewhere, 
I shall make the reckless choice 
Some day when they are in voice 
And tossing so as to scare.

The white clouds over them on. 
I shall have less to say, 
But I shall be gone.

The Weaver

My life is but a weaving, between my God and me, 
I do not choose the colors, He worketh steadily. 

Ofttimes he weaveth sorrow, and I in foolish pride 
Forget He sees the upper, and I the underside. 

Not till the loom is silent, and the shuttles cease to fly, 
Will God unroll the canvas, and explain the reasons why.

The dark threads are as needful in the skillful weaver's hand 
As threads of gold and silver in the pattern He has planned. 

He knows, He loves, He cares, 
Nothing this truth can dim. 

He gives His very best to those 
Who leave the choice with Him.

Auguries of Innocence by William Blake

To see a world in a grain of sand
And a heaven in a wild flower,
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand
And eternity in an hour.

A robin redbreast in a cage
Puts all heaven in a rage.

A dove-house filled with doves and pigeons
Shudders hell through all its regions.

A dog starved at his master's gate
Predicts the ruin of the state.

A horse misused upon the road
Calls to heaven for human blood.

Each outcry of the hunted hare
A fibre from the brain does tear.

A skylark wounded in the wing,
A cherubim does cease to sing.

The game-cock clipped and armed for fight
Does the rising sun affright.

Every wolf's and lion's howl
Raises from hell a human soul.

The wild deer wandering here and there
Keeps the human soul from care.

The lamb misused breeds public strife,
And yet forgives the butcher's knife.

The bat that flits at close of eve
Has left the brain that won't believe.

The owl that calls upon the night
Speaks the unbeliever's fright.


He who shall hurt the little wren
Shall never be beloved by men.

He who the ox to wrath has moved
Shall never be by woman loved.

The wanton boy that kills the fly
Shall feel the spider's enmity.

He who torments the chafer's sprite
Weaves a bower in endless night.

The caterpillar on the leaf
Repeats to thee thy mother's grief.

Kill not the moth nor butterfly,
For the Last Judgment draweth nigh.

He who shall train the horse to war
Shall never pass the polar bar.

The beggar's dog and widow's cat,
Feed them, and thou wilt grow fat.

The gnat that sings his summer's song
Poison gets from Slander's tongue.


The poison of the snake and newt
Is the sweat of Envy's foot.

The poison of the honey-bee
Is the artist's jealousy.

The prince's robes and beggar's rags
Are toadstools on the miser's bags.


A truth that's told with bad intent
Beats all the lies you can invent.

It is right it should be so:
Man was made for joy and woe;
And when this we rightly know
Through the world we safely go.


Joy and woe are woven fine,
A clothing for the soul divine.
Under every grief and pine
Runs a joy with silken twine.

The babe is more than swaddling bands,
Throughout all these human lands;

Tools were made and born were hands,
Every farmer understands.

Every tear from every eye
Becomes a babe in eternity;

This is caught by females bright
And returned to its own delight.


The bleat, the bark, bellow, and roar
Are waves that beat on heaven's shore.


The babe that weeps the rod beneath
Writes Revenge! in realms of death.


The beggar's rags fluttering in air
Does to rags the heavens tear.


The soldier armed with sword and gun
Palsied strikes the summer's sun.

The poor man's farthing is worth more
Than all the gold on Africa's shore.

One mite wrung from the labourer's hands
Shall buy and sell the miser's lands,
Or if protected from on high
Does that whole nation sell and buy.

He who mocks the infant's faithShall be mocked in age and death.

He who shall teach the child to doubt
The rotting grave shall ne'er get out.

He who respects the infant's faith
Triumphs over hell and death.

The child's toys and the old man's reasons
Are the fruits of the two seasons.

The questioner who sits so sly
Shall never know how to reply.

He who replies to words of doubt
Doth put the light of knowledge out.

The strongest poison ever known
Came from Caesar's laurel crown.

Nought can deform the human race
Like to the armour's iron brace.

When gold and gems adorn the plough
To peaceful arts shall Envy bow.

A riddle or the cricket's cry
Is to doubt a fit reply.

The emmet's inch and eagle's mile
Make lame philosophy to smile.

He who doubts from what he sees
Will ne'er believe, do what you please.

If the sun and moon should doubt,
They'd immediately go out.

To be in a passion you good may do,
But no good if a passion is in you.

The whore and gambler, by the state
Licensed, build that nation's fate.
The harlot's cry from street to street
Shall weave old England's winding sheet.

The winner's shout, the loser's curse,
Dance before dead England's hearse.

Every night and every morn
Some to misery are born.

Every morn and every night
Some are born to sweet delight.
,
Some are born to endless night.
We are led to believe a lie
When we see not through the eye
Which was born in a night to perish in a night,
When the soul slept in beams of light.

God appears, and God is light
To those poor souls who dwell in night,
But does a human form display
To those who dwell in realms of day.