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 A Poem for a Naughty Cat at Christmas
You'd better stay down, 
you'd better not climb

I've taken you down for the very last time

Santa Paws is coming to town.

He's making a list and checking it twice...

Deciding which cats deserve some toy mice

Santa PAWS is town.
He's sees where you've been sleeping

He sees what you've knocked down

He knows what you have shredded

Do you WANT to go back to the pound?
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 The Fool Who Wants a Cat
It wasn't very long ago, 
Just about a year or so,
When I convinced my husband that 

He'd hardly notice one small cat.
He made his position very clear 

"She's your responsibility, dear.

This kitten's yours, remember that. 

I'm not the fool who wants a cat."
"You'll be in charge of discipline, 

Putting her out and letting her in. 
Well I understood she'd be my cat,
But I don't think he remembers that.
She's mine to care for and to feed;

I see to her every need.

But when it's time for love and a pat,

She immediately becomes his cat.
He loves "my cat" and it's plain to see

That she loves him as much as me.

At any designated time
You'll find her in his lap not mine.
I suppose I could remind him that

He's not the fool who wants a cat.

But in fact it pleases me,

Because love is better shared by three.
(J. Luke Migliacci)
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 When a friend calls to me from the road
And slows his horse to a meaning walk,
I don't stand still and look around
On all the hills I haven't hoed,
And shout from where I am, 'What is it?'
No, not as there is a time talk.
I thrust my hoe in the mellow ground,
Blade-end up and five feet tall,
And plod: I go up to the stone wall
For a friendly visit.

Robert Frost
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 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. 
                                                 (Robert Frost)


So, choice is inevitable. But what do we miss by not taking the other road?
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 A Little Girl Lost
Children of the future age,

Reading this indignant page,

Know that in a former time

Love, sweet love, was thought a crime.
In the age of gold,

Free from winter's cold,

Youth and maiden bright,

To the holy light,

Naked in the sunny beams delight.
Once a youthful pair,

Filled with softest care,

Met in garden bright

Where the holy light

Had just removed the curtains of the night.
Then, in rising day,

On the grass they play;

Parents were afar,

Strangers came not near,

And the maiden soon forgot her fear.
Tired with kisses sweet,

They agree to meet

When the silent sleep

Waves o'er heaven's deep,

And the weary tired wanderers weep.
To her father white

Came the maiden bright;

But his loving look,

Like the holy book

All her tender limbs with terror shook.
"Ona, pale and weak,

To thy father speak!

Oh the trembling fear!

Oh the dismal care

That shakes the blossoms of my hoary hair!"
William Blake
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 Today I did something I haven't done in a while. I read poetry!
And I really enjoyed it. Especially this poem!
(And yes, I did watch Robin Hood again)

Robin Hood

NO! those days are gone away,
And their hours are old and gray,
And their minutes buried all
Under the down-trodden pall
Ofthe leaves of many years:
Many times have winter's shears,
Frozen North, and chilling East,
Sounded tempests to the feast
Of the forest's whispering fleeces,
Since men knew nor rent nor leases.

No, the bugle sounds no more,
And the twanging bow no more;
Silent is the ivory shrill
Past the heath and up the hill;
There is no mid-forest laugh,
Where lone Echo gives the half
To some wight, amaz'd to hear
Jesting, deep in forest drear.

On the fairest time of June
You may go, with sun or moon,
Or the seven stars to light you,
Or the polar ray to right you;
But you never may behold
Little John, or Robin bold;
Never one, of all the clan,
Thrumming on an empty can
Some old hunting ditty, while
He doth his green way beguile
To fair hostess Merriment,
Down beside the pasture Trent;
For he left the merry tale,
Messenger for spicy ale.

Gone, the merry morris din;
Gone, the song of Gamelyn;
Gone, the tough-belted outlaw
Idling in the "grene shawe";
All are gone away and past!
And if Robin should be cast
Sudden from his turfed grave,
And if Marian should have
Once again her forest days,
She would weep, and he would craze:
He would swear, for all his oaks,
Fall'n beneath the dockyard strokes,
Have rotted on the briny seas;
She would weep that her wild bees
Sang not to her---strange! that honey
Can't be got without hard money!

So it is; yet let us sing
Honour to the old bow-string!
Honour to the bugle-horn!
Honour to the woods unshorn!
Honour to the Lincoln green!
Honour to the archer keen!
Honour to tight little John,
And the horse he rode upon!
Honour to bold Robin Hood,
Sleeping in the underwood!
Honour to maid Marian,
And to all the Sherwood clan!
Though their days have hurried by
Let us two a burden try.

John Keats
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A Dream Within A Dream
Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow-
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand-
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep- while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?

Edgar Allan Poe
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A Light Exists In Spring

A light exists in spring 

Not present on the year 

At any other period. 

When March is scarcely here
A color stands abroad 

On solitary hills 

That science cannot overtake, 

But human naturefeels.
It waits upon the lawn; 

It shows the furthest tree 

Upon the furthest slope we know; 

It almost speaks to me.
Then, as horizons step, 

Or noons report away,

Without the formula of sound, 

It passes, and we stay:
A quality of loss 

Affecting our content, 

As trade had suddenly encroached 

Upon a sacrament.
(Emily Dickinson)
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I Sit and Think

I sit beside the fire and think
of all that I have seen,
of meadow-flowers and butterflies
in summers that have been;

Of yellow leaves and gossamer
in autumns that there were,
with morning mist and silver sun
and wind upon my hair.

I sit beside the fire and think
of how the world will be
when winter comes without a spring
that I shall never see.

For still there are so many things
that I have never seen:
in every wood in every spring
there is a different green.

I sit beside the fire and think
of people long ago,
and people who will see a world
that I shall never know.

But all the while I sit and think
of times there were before,
I listen for returning feet
and voices at the door.

John Ronald Reuel Tolkien
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 “A Soldier”
He is that fallen lance that lies as hurled,
That lies unlifted now, come dew, come rust,
But still lies pointed as it ploughed 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.

-“Robert Frost”


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