Short Poems

Good for good is only fair;
Bad for bad soon brings despair;
Bad for good is vile and base;
Good for bad shows forth God's grace.

The papery outer covering on a tulip bulb is properly called a tunic. There apparently is no common name, in this country, for the envelope of skin on the ears of certain cats, the small labial flap near the base of the flare. In a comparative anatomy book, it's referred to as " a duplicature of the external margin of the pavilion, " the pavilion being the ear itself, its open, tent-like structure. In Britain they call it " Henry's pocket. " The French have a beautiful word — oreillon — a variation of their word for ear, oreille — meaning little ear, or earette.

God and the devil still are wrangling
Which should have her, which repel;
God wants no discord in his heaven;
Satan has enough in hell.

Go tell the Spartans, thou that passest by,
That here, obedient to their laws, we lie.

LYCE .

G O , said old Lyce, senseless lover go,
And with soft verses court the fair; but know,
With all thy verses, thou canst get no more
Than fools without one verse have had before.
Enrag'd at this, upon the hawd I flew;
And that which most enrag'd me, was, 'twas true.

My wish is
to die in spring
under the cherry blossoms
on that day in the Second Month
when the moon is full.

Georgey Porgey, pudding and pie,
Kissed the girls and made them cry;
When the girls come out to play,
Georgey Porgey runs away.

gee i like to think of dead it means nearer because deeper firmer since darker than little round water at one end of the well it's too cool to be crooked and it's too firm to be hard but it's sharp and thick and it loves, every old thing falls in rosebugs and jackknives and kittens and pennies they all sit there looking at each other having the fastest time because they've never met before dead's more even than how many ways of sitting on your head your unnatural hair has in the morning dead's clever too like POF goes the alarm off and the little striker having the best time tickling away ever

Full oft of old the islands changed their name
And took new titles from some heir of fame;
Then dread not yet the wrath of Gods above,
But change your own and be " The Isles of Love " ;
For Love's own name and shape the infant bore
Whom late we buried on yon sandy shore.
Break softly there, thou never-weary wave,
And, earth, lie lightly on his little grave.

From the small life that loves with tooth and nail
To the thorn'd brow that makes the heavens pale.