----- Original Message ----- 
From: Rafael Martinez 
To: [email protected] 
Sent: Tuesday, December 30, 2008 1:47 PM
Subject: Today's Poems


The Sky is Low

The sky is low, the clouds are mean,

A traveling flake of snow

Across a barn or through a rut

Debates if it will go.

A narrow wind complains all day

How someone treated him;

Nature, like us, is sometimes caught

Without her diadem.

--Emily Dickinson

 

Bells of Gray Crystal

Bells of gray crystal

Break on each bough--

The swans' breath will mist all

The cold airs now.

Like tall pagodas

Two people go,

Trail their long codas

Of talk through the snow.

Lonely are these

And lonely and I...

The clouds, gray Chinese geese

Sleek through the sky.

--Edith Sitwell

 

Love and Friendship

Love is like the wild rose-briar;

Friendship like the holly-tree.

The holly is dark when the rose-briar blooms,

But which will bloom most constantly?

The wild rose-briar is sweet in spring,

Its summer blossoms scent the air;

Yet wait till winter comes again,

And who will call the wild-briar fair?

Then, scorn the silly rose-wreath now,

And deck thee with holly's sheen,

That, when December blights thy brow,

He still may leave thy garland green.

--Emily Brontë

 

Dreams

Hold fast to dreams

For if dreams die

Life is a broken-winged bird

That cannot fly.

Hold fast to dreams

For when dreams go

Life is a barren field

Frozen with snow.

--Langston Hughes

 

Six Weeks Old

He is so small he does not know

The summer sun, the winter snow;

The spring that ebbs and comes again,

All this is far beyond his ken.

A little world he feels and sees:

His mother's arms, his mother's knees;

He hides his face against her breast,

And does not care to learn the rest.

--Christopher Morley

 

A Greeting

Good morning, Life--and all

Things glad and beautiful.

My pockets nothing hold,

But he that owns the gold,

The Sun, is my great friend--

His spending has no end.

Hail to the morning sky,

Which bright clouds measure high;

Hail to you birds whose throats

Would number leaves by notes;

Hail to you shady bowers,

And you green field of flowers.

Hail to you women fair,

That make a show so rare

In cloth as white as milk--

Be't calico or silk:

Good morning, Life--and all

Things glad and beautiful.

--W.H. Davies

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