Let’s put thic awld yer to bed,
‘im a’n’t bin best nor wust.
If bist aimin’ to get martal,
Ol’ Butt, thou wunt be fust!
Edward Hunt (2011)
Written at midnight on December 31st 2011
By Edward Hunt (a.k.a. Boz ; a.k.a. Eddie Bosticco)
Fragments by Boz
I have today written my first Haiku:
Compar’d to Haiku,
Villanelle seems to allow
more rhymes and more lines
Fragments by Boz
Little children, never give
Pain to things that feel and live;
Let the gentle robin come
For the crumbs you save at home,—
As his food you throw along
He’ll repay you with a song;
Never hurt the timid hare
Peeping from her green grass lair,
Let her come and sport and play
On the lawn at close of day;
The little lark goes soaring high
To the bright windows of the sky,
Singing as if ’twere always spring,
And fluttering on an untired wing,—
Oh! let him sing his happy song,
Nor do these gentle creatures wrong.
I know a funny little man,
As quiet as a mouse,
Who does the mischief that is done
In everybody’s house!
There’s no one ever sees his face,
And yet we all agree
That every plate we break is cracked
By Mr. Nobody.
‘Tis he who always tears our books,
Who leaves our doors ajar,
He pulls the buttons from our clothes,
And scatters pins afar;
That squeaking door will always squeak,
For prithee, don’t you see?—
We leave the oiling to be done
By Mr. Nobody.
He puts damp wood upon the fire
That kettles cannot boil;
His are the feet that bring in mud,
And all the carpets soil.
The papers always are mislaid;
Who had them last but he?
There’s no one tosses them about
But Mr. Nobody.
The finger marks upon the door
By none of us are made;
We never leave the blinds unclosed,
To let the curtains fade.
The ink we never spill; the boots
That lying round you see
are not our boots; they all belong
To Mr. Nobody.
The little toy dog is covered with dust,
But sturdy and staunch he stands;
And the little toy soldier is red with rust,
And his musket moulds in his hands.
Time was when the little toy dog was new,
And the soldier was passing fair;
And that was the time when our Little Boy Blue
Kissed them and put them there.
“Now, don’t you go till I come,” he said,
“And don’t you make any noise!”
So, toddling off to his trundle-bed,
He dreamt of the pretty toys;
And, as he was dreaming, an angel song
Awakened our Little Boy Blue—
Oh! the years are many, the years are long,
But the little toy friends are true!
Ay, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand,
Each in the same old place—
Awaiting the touch of a little hand,
The smile of a little face;
And they wonder, as waiting the long years through
In the dust of that little chair,
What has become of our Little Boy Blue,
Since he kissed them and put them there.
Little Boy Blue by Eugene Field (1850-1895)
Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
By William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)
Venus by Adonis’ side
Crying kiss’d, and kissing cried;
Wrung her hands and tore her hair,
For Adonis dying there.
Stay! quoth she: O stay and live!
Nature surely doth not give
To the earth her sweetest flowers
To be seen but some few hours.
On his face, still as he bled,
For each drop a tear she shed,
Which she kiss’d or wiped away, —
Else had drown’d him where he lay.
Fair Proserpina, quoth she,
Shall not have thee yet from me;
Nor thy soul to fly begin
While my lips can keep it in.
Here she closed again. And some
Say — Apollo would have come
To have cured his wounded limb —
But that she had smother’d him.
Venus and Adonis by William Browne
From Britannia’s Pastoral
William Browne (1590-1650?)