Bee

O! Where Are You Going? O! What are you doing, And where are you going? Your ponies need shoeing! The River is flowing! O! Tra-la-la-lally Here down in the valley! O! What are you seeking, And where are you making? The faggots are reeking! The bannocks are baking! O! Tril-lil-lil-lolly The valley is jolly Ha ha! O! Where are you going, With beards all a-wagging? No knowing, no knowing What brings Mister Baggins, And Balin and Dwalin Down into the valley In June Ha ha! O! Will you be staying, Or will you be flying? Your ponies are straying! The daylight is dying! To fly would be folly, To stay would be jolly! And listen and hark Till the end of the dark To our tune. Ha ha! The dragon is withered, His bones are now crumbled! His armor is shivered, His splendour is humbled! Though sword shall be rusted And throne and crown perish, With strength that men trusted And wealth that they cherish, Here grass is still growing, And leaves are yet swing...

      Deadly Kisses ____________________________   All take these lips away; no more, No more such kisses give to me. My spirit faints for joy; I see Through mists of death the dreamy shore, And meadows by the water-side, Where all about the Hollow Land Fare the sweet singers that have died, With their lost ladies, hand in hand; Ah, Love, how fireless are their eyes, How pale their lips that kiss and smile! So mine must be in little while If thou wilt kiss me in such wise. _______________________________ Pierre Ronsard 

When are the children all happy and gay? When do they ne'er grow tired of play? When do their mouths seem like bells in chimes? It is the merry Christmas times. When do the little boys all get good? And bring in coal and cut all the wood, And every command of their parents mind, 'Tis just a week before Chistmas times. That is the time when all of the work Is done without a grumble or shirk. The little boys then ne'er turn and twist, When mother says, "Son, come here and do this." Let the word be said, he's at her command, Not once does he frown, or attempt to stand, But goes at her bidding, happy and gay, For it will soon be Christmas day. And then old Santa, thro' all the snow, Will come to those who've been good, you know; Down the chimney he'll come and will not stop, Till he fills each stocking full to the top. When his task is o'er he takes his stand Gazing at little ones in Dreamland, Who in that land, all happy and ...

How heavy the days are. There's not a fire that can warm me, Not a sun to laugh with me, Everything bare, Everything cold and merciless, And even the beloved, clear Stars look desolately down, Since I learned in my heart that Love can die. Translated by James Wright Submitted by Holt   Hermann Hesse 

Acrostic Little maidens, when you look On this little story-book, Reading with attentive eye Its enticing history, Never think that hours of play Are your only HOLIDAY, And that in a HOUSE of joy Lessons serve but to annoy: If in any HOUSE you find Children of a gentle mind, Each the others pleasing ever— Each the others vexing never— Daily work and pastime daily In their order taking gaily— Then be very sure that they Have a life of HOLIDAY. _________________________________________ Lewis Carroll ________________ Notes for Lorrina, Alice, and Edith Liddell Christmas 1861

FALSE THOUGH SHE BE by: William Congreve (1670-1729) ALSE though she be to me and love, I'll ne'er pursue revenge; For still the charmer I approve, Though I deplore her change.   In hours of bliss we oft have met: They could not always last; And though the present I regret, I'm grateful for the past.

Winter Conversation by Joyce Wakefield I listen to you explain the difference between a right brain thought and a left. I am distracted by the smell of cold on your face. I lick it away like a child with an ice cream cone sticky fingers and sweet tongue. Aware that I have been here before I pause in your words. I have slept in this flesh, dreamed these winter bones. Waking in the darkness between us I hear frost sweeping the porch, edging toward the morning. I reach for your hand. What, you whisper, voice hoarse with dream. My lips, swollen with you, cold, are silent.