Bee

I am the very model for a student mathematical; I’ve information rational, and logical and practical. I know the laws of algebra, and find them quite symmetrical, And even know the meaning of ‘a variate antithetical’. I’m extremely well acquainted, with all things mathematical. I understand equations, both the simple and quadratical. About binomial theorems I’m teeming with a lot o’news, With many cheerful facts about the square of the hypotenuse. I’m very good at integral and differential calculus, And solving paradoxes that so often seem to rankle us. In short in matters rational, and logical and practical, I am the very model for a student mathematical. I know the singularities of equations differential, And some of these are regular, but the rest are quite essential. I quote the results of giants; with Euler, Newton, Gauss, Laplace, And can calculate an orbit, given a centre, force and mass. I can reconstruct equations, both canonical and formal, And write all kinds of matrices, or...

Full of wrath was Hiawatha When he came into the village, Found the people in confusion, Heard of all the misdemeanors, All the malice and the mischief, Of the cunning Pau-Puk-Keewis. Hard his breath came through his nostrils, Through his teeth he buzzed and muttered Words of anger and resentment, Hot and humming, like a hornet. "I will slay this Pau-Puk-Keewis, Slay this mischief-maker!" said he. "Not so long and wide the world is, Not so rude and rough the way is, That my wrath shall not attain him, That my vengeance shall not reach him!" Then in swift pursuit departed Hiawatha and the hunters On the trail of Pau-Puk-Keewis, Through the forest, where he passed it, To the headlands where he rested; But they found not Pau-Puk-Keewis, Only in the trampled grasses, In the whortleberry-bushes, Found the couch where he had rested, Found the impress of his body. From the lowlands far beneath them, From the Muskoday, the meadow, Pau-Puk-Keewis, tu...

FERRARA That's my last Duchess painted on the wall, Looking as if she were alive. I call That piece a wonder, now: Frà Pandolf's hands Worked busily a day, and there she stands. Will 't please you sit and look at her? I said "Frà Pandolf" by design, for never read Strangers like you that pictured countenance, The depth and passion of its earnest glance, But to myself they turned (since none puts by The curtain I have drawn for you, but I) And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst, How such a glance came there; so, not the first Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 'twas not Her husband's presence only, called that spot Of joy into the Duchess' cheek: perhaps Frà Pandolf chanced to say, "Her mantle laps Over my Lady's wrist...

Sound the flute! Now it's mute! Birds delight, Day and night, Nightingale, In the dale, Lark in sky, - Merrily, Merrily, merrily to welcome in the year. Little boy, Full of joy; Little girl, Sweet and small; Cock does crow, So do you; Merry voice, Infant noise; Merrily, merrily to welcome in the year. Little lamb, Here I am; Come and lick My white neck; Let me pull Your soft wool; Let me kiss Your soft face; Merrily, merrily we welcome in the year. by William Blake (1757-1827)

THAT for seven lusters I did never come To do the rites to thy religious tomb ; That neither hair was cut, or true tears shed By me, o'er thee, as justments to the dead, Forgive, forgive me ; since I did not know Whether thy bones had here their rest or no. But now 'tis known, behold! behold, I bring Unto thy ghost th' effused offering : And look what smallage, night-shade, cypress, yew, Unto the shades have been, or now are due, Here I devote ; and something more than so ; I come to pay a debt of birth I owe. Thou gav'st me life, but mortal ; for that one Favour I'll make full satisfaction ; For my life mortal rise from out thy herse, And take a life immortal from my verse. *** Seven lusters, five and thirty years. Hair was cut, according to the Greek custom. Justments, dues. Smallage, water parsley. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Herrick, Robert. ---------------------------------------------------------------------...

O sweet illusions of Song, That tempt me everywhere, In the lonely fields, and the throng Of the crowded thoroughfare! I approach, and ye vanish away, I grasp you, and ye are gone; But ever by nigh an day, The melody soundeth on. As the weary traveller sees In desert or prairie vast, Blue lakes, overhung with trees, That a pleasant shadow cast; Fair towns with turrets high, And shining roofs of gold, That vanish as he draws nigh, Like mists together rolled,-- So I wander and wander along, And forever before me gleams The shining city of song, In the beautiful land of dreams. But when I would enter the gate Of that golden atmosphere, It is gone, and I wander and wait For the vision to reappear. Poetry of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Birds of Passage