A dog wandered into our garden one day, A friendly old mutt, didn’t look like a stray. We never discovered whence he had come, But we brushed him and fed him and the kids called him Rum.
Now as family members, even dogs must work hard, So we put Rum on duty next door in our yard, Bright eyed and watchful by night and by day, But not much of a guard dog, I’m sorry to say.
He barked at the cats and he’d bark at a toad, He barked at the cattle outside on the road, He barked at the horses – so where did he fail? You see, Rum liked people, and he just wagged his tail.
He liked the yard labour, an amiable bunch. They fed our dog tidbits and scraps from their lunch. Rum wolfed it all down, but to our dismay He seemed to get fatter with each passing day.
Then one night when Rum was laid at his ease, A burglar crept in just as quiet as you please. He saw no alarms, heard no siren howling, No guard dog for sure, there’d be barking and growling.
But Rum was awake and he’d seen him alright, Delighted with company this time of the night, He flew through the yard, his new friend to greet, And his weight bowled the burglar right off of his feet.
The intruder got up and ran off with a wail And Rum right behind him still wagging his tail. He departed the yard he’d come in to burgle Like a champion athlete clearing a hurdle.
But Rum couldn’t jump gates, so sadly instead He picked up the thief’s wallet and went back to bed. Next morning the evidence everyone viewed, When Rum brought it to us, (just a little bit chewed).
Once given the wallet, the police didn’t fail To capture the burglar and put him in jail. His confession like wildfire spread through the town, How a big vicious guard dog had knocked the thief down.
We all howled with laughter when we heard the story, And Rum was our hero, he was basking in glory. There’s been no attempts since to burgle our yard, For everyone knows now that Rum is on guard.
Ode Written On The First Of January by Robert Southey
Come melancholy Moralizer—come! Gather with me the dark and wintry wreath; With me engarland now The SEPULCHRE OF TIME!
Come Moralizer to the funeral song! I pour the dirge of the Departed Days, For well the funeral song Befits this solemn hour.
But hark! even now the merry bells ring round With clamorous joy to welcome in this day, This consecrated day, To Mirth and Indolence.
Mortal! whilst Fortune with benignant hand Fills to the brim thy cup of happiness, Whilst her unclouded sun Illumes thy summer day,
Canst thou rejoice—rejoice that Time flies fast? That Night shall shadow soon thy summer sun? That swift the stream of Years Rolls to Eternity?
If thou hast wealth to gratify each wish, If Power be thine, remember what thou art— Remember thou art Man, And Death thine heritage!
Hast thou known Love? does Beauty's better sun Cheer thy fond heart with no capricious smile, Her eye all eloquence, Her voice all harmony?
Oh state of happiness! hark how the gale Moans deep and hollow o'er the leafless grove! Winter is dark and cold— Where now the charms of Spring?
Sayst thou that Fancy paints the future scene In hues too sombrous? that the dark-stol'd Maid With stern and frowning front Appals the shuddering soul?
And would'st thou bid me court her faery form When, as she sports her in some happier mood, Her many-colour'd robes Dance varying to the Sun?
Ah vainly does the Pilgrim, whose long road Leads o'er the barren mountain's storm-vext height, With anxious gaze survey The fruitful far-off vale.
Oh there are those who love the pensive song To whom all sounds of Mirth are dissonant! There are who at this hour Will love to contemplate!
For hopeless Sorrow hails the lapse of Time, Rejoicing when the fading orb of day Is sunk again in night, That one day more is gone.
And he who bears Affliction's heavy load With patient piety, well pleas'd he knows The World a pilgrimage, The Grave the inn of rest.
He is that fallen lance that lies as hurled, That lies unlifted now, come dew, come rust, But still lies pointed as it plowed the dust. If we who sight along it round the world, See nothing worthy to have been its mark, It is because like men we look too near, Forgetting that as fitted to the sphere, Our missiles always make too short an arc. They fall, they rip the grass, they intersect The curve of earth, and striking, break their own; They make us cringe for metal-point on stone. But this we know, the obstacle that checked And tripped the body, shot the spirit on Further than target ever showed or shone.
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim Because it was grassy and wanted wear, Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I, I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.
Your hands easy weight, teasing the bees hived in my hair, your smile at the slope of my cheek. On the occasion, you press above me, glowing, spouting readiness, mystery rapes my reason
When you have withdrawn your self and the magic, when only the smell of your love lingers between my breasts, then, only then, can I greedily consume your presence.
Dive into captivating worlds, engage in thought-provoking discussions, and connect with fellow bookworms who share your passion for literature. Whether you're an avid reader, a casual browser, or someone looking to explore new genres, there's a place for you here amidst the emerald pages of our virtual library. #emeraldbookclub#bookstagram#book#bookworm#booknerd#booklover#booklovers#bookaddict
