An Egyptian Love Poem, c.1300 B.C.

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"Love's Coming" - Ella Wheeler Wilcox

She had looked for his coming as warrior's come,
With the clash of arms and the bugle's call;
But he came instead with a stealthy tread,
Which she did not hear at all.

She had thought how his armor would blaze in the sun,
As he rode like a prince to claim his bride:
In the sweet dim light of the falling night
She found him at her side.

She had dreamed how the gaze of his strange, bold eye
Would wake her heart to a sudden glow:
She found in his face the familiar grace
Of a friend she used to know.

She had dreamed how his coming would stir her soul,
As the ocean is stirred by the wild storm's strife:
He brought her the balm of a heavenly calm,
And a peace which crowned her life.

Hope is the Thing with Feathers - By Emily Dickinson

“Hope” is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -

I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.

Crabby Old Man: A Poem About Ageing

"When an old man died in the geriatric ward of a nursing home it was believed that he had nothing left of any value.
Later, when the nurses were going through his meager possessions, they found this poem.
 Its quality and content so impressed the staff that copies were made and distributed to 
every nurse in the home. One nurse took her copy to Missouri.
The old man’s sole bequest to posterity has since appeared in the Christmas edition of 
the News Magazine of the St. Louis Association for Mental Health. A slide presentation
 has also been made based on his simple, but eloquent, poem.
And this little old man, with nothing left to give to the world, is now the author of
 this ‘anonymous’ poem winging across the Internet."



Crabby Old Man…

What do you see nurses? . . … . . What do you see?
What are you thinking . . . . . when you’re looking at me? A crabby old man . . . . . not very wise,
Uncertain of habit … . . . . with faraway eyes?

Who dribbles his food . . . .. . and makes no reply.
When you say in a loud voice . . . . . ‘I do wish you’d try!’ Who seems not to notice .. . . … . the things that you do.
And forever is losing . . . . . A sock or shoe?

Who, resisting or not . . . . . lets you do as you will,
With bathing and feeding . . . .. . The long day to fill? Is that what you’re thinking? . … . . . Is that what you see?
Then open your eyes, nurse . . . . . you’re not looking at me.

I’ll tell you who I am. . . . … . As I sit here so still,
As I do at your bidding, . . . . . as I eat at your will. I’m a small child of Ten . . . . .. with a father and mother,
Brothers and sisters . . . . … who love one another.

A young boy of Sixteen . . . . with wings on his feet.
Dreaming that soon now . . . . . a lover he’ll meet. A groom soon at Twenty . . . . .. my heart gives a leap.
Remembering, the vows . . . . . that I promised to keep.

At Twenty-Five, now . . . .. . I have young of my own.
Who need me to guide . . . . . And a secure happy home. A man of Thirty . . . . . My young now grown fast,
Bound to each other .. . . . . With ties that should last.

At Forty, my young sons . . … . . have grown and are gone,
But my woman’s beside me . . . . . to see I don’t mourn. At Fifty, once more, babies play ’round my knee,
Again, we know children . . . . . My loved one and me.

Dark days are upon me . . . . . my wife is now dead.
I look at the future . . . . . shudder with dread. For my young are all rearing . … . . . young of their own.
And I think of the years .. . . .. . and the love that I’ve known.

I’m now an old man . . . . …. and nature is cruel.
Tis jest to make old age . . . . . look like a fool. The body, it crumbles . . . . . grace and vigor, depart.
There is now a stone . . . . where I once had a heart.

But inside this old carcass . . . . . a young guy still dwells,
And now and again . . . . . my battered heart swells. I remember the joys . . . . . I remember the pain.
And I’m loving and living . . . … . life over again.

I think of the years, all too few . . . . . gone too fast.
And accept the stark fact . . . . that nothing can last. So open your eyes, people . . . … . open and see.
Not a crabby old man . … . . Look closer . .. . see ME!!

excerpt from "Autumnal Journal" by Louis Macneice

A friend...