The Poem Reader

I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me,And what can be the use of him is more than I can see.He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head;And I see him jump before me, when I jump into my bed.

The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow—Not at all like proper children, which is always very slow;For he sometimes shoots up taller like an india-rubber ball,And he sometimes gets so little that there's none of him at all.

He hasn't got a notion of how children ought to play,And can only make a fool of me in every sort of way.He stays so close beside me, he's a coward you can see;I'd think shame to stick to nursie as that shadow sticks to me!

One morning, very early, before the sun was up,I rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup;But my lazy little shadow, like an arrant sleepy-head,Had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed.

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Matilda told such Dreadful Lies,It made one Gasp and Stretch one's Eyes;Her Aunt, who, from her Earliest Youth,Had kept a Strict Regard for Truth,Attempted to Believe Matilda:The effort very nearly killed her,And would have done so, had not SheDiscovered this Infirmity.For once, towards the Close of Day,Matilda, growing tired of play,And finding she was left alone,Went tiptoe to the TelephoneAnd summoned the Immediate AidOf London's Noble Fire-Brigade.Within an hour the Gallant BandWere pouring in on every hand,From Putney, Hackney Downs, and Bow.With Courage high and Hearts a-glow,They galloped, roaring through the Town,'Matilda's House is Burning Down!'Inspired by British Cheers and LoudProceeding from the Frenzied Crowd,They ran their ladders through a scoreOf windows on the Ball Room Floor;And took Peculiar Pains to SouseThe Pictures up and down the House,Until Matilda's Aunt succeededIn showing them they were not needed;And even then she had to payTo get the Men to go away,     It happened that a few Weeks laterHer Aunt was off to the TheatreTo see that Interesting PlayThe Second Mrs. Tanqueray.She had refused to take her NieceTo hear this Entertaining Piece:A Deprivation Just and WiseTo Punish her for Telling Lies.That Night a Fire did break out--You should have heard Matilda Shout!You should have heard her Scream and Bawl,And throw the window up and callTo People passing in the Street--(The rapidly increasing HeatEncouraging her to obtainTheir confidence) -- but all in vain!For every time she shouted 'Fire!'They only answered 'Little Liar!'And therefore when her Aunt returned,Matilda, and the House, were Burned.

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Macavity's a Mystery Cat: he's called the Hidden Paw—For he's the master criminal who can defy the Law.He's the bafflement of Scotland Yard, the Flying Squad's despair:For when they reach the scene of crime—Macavity's not there!Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macavity,He's broken every human law, he breaks the law of gravity.His powers of levitation would make a fakir stare,And when you reach the scene of crime—Macavity's not there!You may seek him in the basement, you may look up in the air—But I tell you once and once again, Macavity's not there!Macavity's a ginger cat, he's very tall and thin;You would know him if you saw him, for his eyes are sunken in.His brow is deeply lined with thought, his head is highly domed;His coat is dusty from neglect, his whiskers are uncombed.He sways his head from side to side, with movements like a snake;And when you think he's half asleep, he's always wide awake.Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macavity,For he's a fiend in feline shape, a monster of depravity.You may meet him in a by-street, you may see him in the square—But when a crime's discovered, then Macavity's not there!He's outwardly respectable. (They say he cheats at cards.)And his footprints are not found in any file of Scotland Yard'sAnd when the larder's looted, or the jewel-case is rifled,Or when the milk is missing, or another Peke's been stifled,Or the greenhouse glass is broken, and the trellis past repairAy, there's the wonder of the thing! Macavity's not there!And when the Foreign Office find a Treaty's gone astray,Or the Admiralty lose some plans and drawings by the way,There may be a scrap of paper in the hall or on the stair—But it's useless to investigate—Macavity's not there!And when the loss has been disclosed, the Secret Service say:It must have been Macavity!'—but he's a mile away.You'll be sure to find him resting, or a-licking of his thumb;Or engaged in doing complicated long division sums.Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macavity,There never was a Cat of such deceitfulness and suavity.He always has an alibi, and one or two to spare:At whatever time the deed took place—MACAVITY WASN'T THERE !And they say that all the Cats whose wicked deeds are widely known(I might mention Mungojerrie, I might mention Griddlebone)Are nothing more than agents for the Cat who all the timeJust controls their operations: the Napoleon of Crime!

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I know thee not, old man: fall to thy prayers;How ill white hairs become a fool and jester!I have long dream'd of such a kind of man,So surfeit-swell'd, so old and so profane;But, being awaked, I do despise my dream.Make less thy body hence, and more thy grace;Leave gormandizing; know the grave doth gapeFor thee thrice wider than for other men.Reply not to me with a fool-born jest:Presume not that I am the thing I was;For God doth know, so shall the world perceive,That I have turn'd away my former self;So will I those that kept me company.When thou dost hear I am as I have been,Approach me, and thou shalt be as thou wast,The tutor and the feeder of my riots:Till then, I banish thee, on pain of death,As I have done the rest of my misleaders,Not to come near our person by ten mile.For competence of life I will allow you,That lack of means enforce you not to evil:And, as we hear you do reform yourselves,We will, according to your strengths and qualities,Give you advancement. Be it your charge, my lord,To see perform'd the tenor of our word. Set on.

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Here lies a poor woman who was always tired,She lived in a house where help wasn’t hired:Her last words on earth were: ‘Dear friends, I am goingTo where there’s no cooking, or washing, or sewing,For everything there is exact to my wishes,For where they don’t eat there’s no washing of dishes.I’ll be where loud anthems will always be ringing,But having no voice I’ll be quit of the singing.Don’t mourn for me now, don’t mourn for me never,I am going to do nothing for ever and ever.’

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From east and south the holy clanOf Bishops gathered to a man;To Synod, called Pan-Anglican,In flocking crowds they came.Among them was a Bishop, whoHad lately been appointed toThe balmy isle of Rum-ti-Foo,And PETER was his name.His people - twenty-three in sum -They played the eloquent tum-tum,And lived on scalps served up, in rum -The only sauce they knew.When first good BISHOP PETER came(For PETER was that Bishop's name),To humour them, he did the sameAs they of Rum-ti-Foo.His flock, I've often heard him tell,(His name was PETER) loved him well,And, summoned by the sound of bell,In crowds together came."Oh, massa, why you go away?Oh, MASSA PETER, please to stay."(They called him PETER, people say,Because it was his name.)He told them all good boys to be,And sailed away across the sea,At London Bridge that Bishop heArrived one Tuesday night;And as that night he homeward strodeTo his Pan-Anglican abode,He passed along the Borough Road,And saw a gruesome sight.He saw a crowd assembled roundA person dancing on the ground,Who straight began to leap and boundWith all his might and main.To see that dancing man he stopped,Who twirled and wriggled, skipped and hopped,Then down incontinently dropped,And then sprang up again.The Bishop chuckled at the sight."This style of dancing would delightA simple Rum-ti-Foozleite.I'll learn it if I can,To please the tribe when I get back."He begged the man to teach his knack."Right Reverend Sir, in half a crack!Replied that dancing man.The dancing man he worked away,And taught the Bishop every day -The dancer skipped like any fay -Good PETER did the same.The Bishop buckled to his task,With BATTEMENTS, and PAS DE BASQUE.(I'll tell you, if you care to ask,That PETER was his name.)"Come, walk like this," the dancer said,"Stick out your toes - stick in your head,Stalk on with quick, galvanic tread -Your fingers thus extend;The attitude's considered quaint."The weary Bishop, feeling faint,Replied, "I do not say it ain't,But 'Time!' my Christian friend!""We now proceed to something new -Dance as the PAYNES and LAURIS do,Like this - one, two - one, two - one, two."The Bishop, never proud,But in an overwhelming heat(His name was PETER, I repeat)Performed the PAYNE and LAURI feat,And puffed his thanks aloud.Another game the dancer planned -"Just take your ankle in your hand,And try, my lord, if you can stand -Your body stiff and stark.If, when revisiting your see,You learnt to hop on shore - like me -The novelty would striking be,And must attract remark.""No," said the worthy Bishop, "no;That is a length to which, I trow,Colonial Bishops cannot go.You may express surpriseAt finding Bishops deal in pride -But if that trick I ever tried,I should appear undignifiedIn Rum-ti-Foozle's eyes."The islanders of Rum-ti-FooAre well-conducted persons, whoApprove a joke as much as you,And laugh at it as such;But if they saw their Bishop land,His leg supported in his hand,The joke they wouldn't understand -'T would pain them very much!"

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The sun was shining on the sea,Shining with all his might:He did his very best to makeThe billows smooth and bright--And this was odd, because it wasThe middle of the night.The moon was shining sulkily,Because she thought the sunHad got no business to be thereAfter the day was done--"It's very rude of him," she said,"To come and spoil the fun!"The sea was wet as wet could be,The sands were dry as dry.You could not see a cloud, becauseNo cloud was in the sky:No birds were flying overhead--There were no birds to fly.The Walrus and the CarpenterWere walking close at hand;They wept like anything to seeSuch quantities of sand:"If this were only cleared away,"They said, "it would be grand!""If seven maids with seven mopsSwept it for half a year.Do you suppose," the Walrus said,"That they could get it clear?""I doubt it," said the Carpenter,And shed a bitter tear."O Oysters, come and walk with us!"The Walrus did beseech."A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,Along the briny beach:We cannot do with more than four,To give a hand to each."The eldest Oyster looked at him,But never a word he said:The eldest Oyster winked his eye,And shook his heavy head--Meaning to say he did not chooseTo leave the oyster-bed.But four young Oysters hurried up,All eager for the treat:Their coats were brushed, their faces washed,Their shoes were clean and neat--And this was odd, because, you know,They hadn't any feet.Four other Oysters followed them,And yet another four;And thick and fast they came at last,And more, and more, and more--All hopping through the frothy waves,And scrambling to the shore.The Walrus and the CarpenterWalked on a mile or so,And then they rested on a rockConveniently low:And all the little Oysters stoodAnd waited in a row."The time has come," the Walrus said,"To talk of many things:Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax--Of cabbages--and kings--And why the sea is boiling hot--And whether pigs have wings.""But wait a bit," the Oysters cried,"Before we have our chat;For some of us are out of breath,And all of us are fat!""No hurry!" said the Carpenter.They thanked him much for that."A loaf of bread," the Walrus said,"Is what we chiefly need:Pepper and vinegar besidesAre very good indeed--Now if you're ready, Oysters dear,We can begin to feed.""But not on us!" the Oysters cried,Turning a little blue."After such kindness, that would beA dismal thing to do!""The night is fine," the Walrus said."Do you admire the view?"It was so kind of you to come!And you are very nice!"The Carpenter said nothing but"Cut us another slice:I wish you were not quite so deaf--I've had to ask you twice!""It seems a shame," the Walrus said,"To play them such a trick,After we've brought them out so far,And made them trot so quick!"The Carpenter said nothing but"The butter's spread too thick!""I weep for you," the Walrus said:"I deeply sympathize."With sobs and tears he sorted outThose of the largest size,Holding his pocket-handkerchiefBefore his streaming eyes."O Oysters," said the Carpenter,"You've had a pleasant run!Shall we be trotting home again?'But answer came there none--And this was scarcely odd, becauseThey'd eaten every one.

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It freezes- all across a soundless skyThe birds go home. The governing dark's begun:The steadfast dark that waits not for a sun;The ultimate dark wherein the race shall die.Death, with his evil finger to his lip,Leers in at human windows, turning spyTo learn the country where his rule shall lieWhen he assumes perpetual generalship.The undefeated enemy, the chillThat shall benumb the voiceful earth at last,Is master of our moment, and has boundThe viewless wind it-self. There is no sound.It freezes. Every friendly stream is fast.It freezes; and the graven twigs are still.

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What can be said in New Year rhymes,That’s not been said a thousand times? 

The new years come, the old years go,We know we dream, we dream we know. 

We rise up laughing with the light,We lie down weeping with the night. 

We hug the world until it stings,We curse it then and sigh for wings. 

We live, we love, we woo, we wed,We wreathe our prides, we sheet our dead. 

We laugh, we weep, we hope, we fear,And that’s the burden of a year.

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Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,   The flying cloud, the frosty light:   The year is dying in the night;Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

Ring out the old, ring in the new,   Ring, happy bells, across the snow:   The year is going, let him go;Ring out the false, ring in the true.

Ring out the grief that saps the mind   For those that here we see no more;   Ring out the feud of rich and poor,Ring in redress to all mankind.

Ring out a slowly dying cause,   And ancient forms of party strife;   Ring in the nobler modes of life,With sweeter manners, purer laws.

Ring out the want, the care, the sin,   The faithless coldness of the times;   Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymesBut ring the fuller minstrel in.

Ring out false pride in place and blood,   The civic slander and the spite;   Ring in the love of truth and right,Ring in the common love of good.

Ring out old shapes of foul disease;   Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;   Ring out the thousand wars of old,Ring in the thousand years of peace.

Ring in the valiant man and free,   The larger heart, the kindlier hand;   Ring out the darkness of the land,Ring in the Christ that is to be.

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