Weekly Contest
Classic poem of the day
IX. SÎTA. Three happy children in a darkened room! What do they gaze on with wide-open eyes? A dense, dense forest, where no sunbeam pries, And in its centre a cleared spot.—There bloom Gigantic flowers on creepers that embrace Tall trees: there, in a quiet lucid lake The while swans glide; there, "whirring from the brake," The peacock springs; there, herds of wild deer race; There, patches gleam with yellow waving grain; There, blue smoke from strange altars rises light. There, dwells in peace, the poet-anchorite. But who is this fair lady? Not in vain She weeps,—for lo! at every tear she sheds Tears from three pairs of young eyes fall amain, And bowed in sorrow are the three young heads. It is an old, old story, and the lay Which has evoked sad Sîta from the past Is by a mother sung.… 'Tis hushed at last And melts the picture from their sight away, Yet shall they dream of it until the day! When shall those children by their mother's side Gather, ah me! as erst at eventide?
member poem of the day
Mama always wore an apron,
No matter what the chore.
You’d even see her from the road,
As she waved it from the door.
It was great for wiping hands,
For drying those childhood tears.
And those dirty little smudges
Behind those tiny ears.
And when father saw her wave it,
As he labored in the field,
He knew t’was time for dinner,
When the apron she would wield.
When she would stop at the garden,
It made such a handy sack.
And when she’d look for eggs,
It was always full when she came back.
For me, the days of dress-up,
Meant, oh, so much more
When during my childhood play,
I would don the apron my mama wore.
