Fog Carl Sandburg
The fog comes
on little cat feet.
It sits looking over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then, moves on.
The Eagle Alfred Tennyson
He claps the drag with crooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ringed with the azure world, he stands,
The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls.
The Road Not Taken
by Robert Frost
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I coul 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 too 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 trodded 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 i a woo, and I ----
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
You know the sort -- the postcard that gets stuck
between the ads for siding and the plea
for missing children, that you usually
toss out, another scrap1 for the garbage truck.
But, to your own surprise, one day you pluck
the yellow flyer out and go, and he
and you first meet, which just as easily
might not have happened, a simple case of luck:
enough to send you screaming to the skies
about the crazy vagaries2 of it all,
everything resting on a thing so small,
the million chances you don't recognize,
much less take, and then, the one you took --
the random3 blessedness of that one look.
Early April suddenly ablaze1 and unexpected pear blossom
As rampant2 as de Chardin's sudden forms of life, as
Delicate as the lacquer-work left over from a raid
Of winter that scattered3 so many things since autumn -
You could hardly fathom4 what April brought in on the breeze,
What organic matter-of-fact things, what an impolite cascade5
Of broken crockery in pink and green. It’s like that election
Heard in the distance, beyond the fat privet hedge,
An election that has set the traffic lights on edge
And caused this collision of ideas. From our quiet section
I can hear anxieties rolling in. But are these not the same as last
Time? Is she not the same? And he, is he not like a gardener
Gone berserk, flat cap askew6, trying to make regular
What swarms7; life itself, that is, now swarming8 on the grass?