I Think I Know No Finer Thing Than Dogs

Week 5 Poem


Through prejudice perhaps my mind befrogs,
I think I know no finer thing than dogs:
The young ones, they of gay and bounding heart,
Who lure us in their games to take a part,
Who with mock tragedy their antics cloak
And, from their wild eyes' tail, admit the joke;
The old ones, with their wistful, fading eyes,
They who desire no further paradise
Than the warm comfort of our smile and hand,
Who tune their moods to ours and understand
Each word and gesture; they who lie and wait
To welcome us - with no rebuke if late.
Sublime the love they bear, but ask to live
Close to our feet, unrecompensed to give;
Beside which many men seem very logs -
I think I know no finer thing than dogs.

Hally Carrington Brent

Week 3 Poem

To Autumn

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.


Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.


Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,--
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

---John Keats

Week 2 Poem

This one is from Andrea (one of her favorites). We haven't quite figured out how she can post directly to the blog with her own account yet, so I'm doing this one, but if someone knows maybe you can give us a hand. We're both REALLY new at this blogging stuff. And of course, once she figures it out, we can all bug her to start putting her stories up for us to read!! Ok, so here's your weekly dose of poetry:

A mermaid found a swimming lad,
Picked him for her own,
Pressed her body to his body,
Laughed; and plunging down
Forgot in cruel happiness
That even lovers drown.

----William Butler Yeats

Weekly Poem

I'm going do a weekly poem to make things interesting around here and to keep everyone coming back. The first will actually be two by one of my favorites, Robert Frost.

A Time to Talk

When a friend calls to me from the road
And slows his horse to a meandering 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 to 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.

Canis Major

The great Overdog,
That heavenly beast
With a star in one eye,
Gives a leap in the east.

He dances upright
All the way to the west
And never once drops
On his feet to rest

I'm a poor underdog,
But tonight I will bark
With the great Overdog
That romps through the dark.