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Warning

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple

With a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.

And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves

And satin sandals, and say we've no money for butter.

I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired

And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells

And run my stick along the public railings

And make up for the sobriety of my youth.

I shall go out in my slippers in the rain

And pick the flowers in other people's gardens

And learn to spit.

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat

And eat three pounds of sausages at a go

Or only bread and pickle for a week

And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry

And pay our rent and not swear in the street

And set a good example for the children.

We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.

But maybe I ought to practice a little now?

So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised

When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.

Jenny Joseph

The Tide Rises, the Tide Falls

The tide rises, the tide falls,

The twilight darkens, the curfew calls;

Along the sea-sands damp and brown

The traveler hastens toward the town,

And the tide rises, the tide falls.

Darkness settles on roofs and walls,

But the sea, the sea in the darkness calls;

The little waves, with their soft, white hands,

Efface the footprints in the sands,

And the tide rises, the tide falls.

The morning breaks; the steeds in their stalls

Stamp and neigh, as the hostler calls;

The day returns, but nevermore

Returns the traveler to the shore,

And tide rise, the tide falls.

Henry W. Longfellow

Poetess

At verse she was not inept!

Her feet were neatly numbered.

She never cried, she softly wept,

She never slept, she slumbered.

She never ate and rarely dined,

Her tongue found sweetmeats sour,

She never guessed, but oft divined

The secrets of a flower.

A flower! Fragrant, pliant, clean,

More dear to her than crystal.

She knew what earnings doze between

The stamen and the pistil.

Dawn took her thither to the wood,

At even, home she hithered.

Ah, to the gentle Pan is good

She never died, she withered.

John Updike

Winter

When icicle hang by the wall,

And Dick the shepherd blows his nail,

And Tome bears logs into the hall,

And milk comes frozen home in pail,

When blood is nipped and ways be foul,

Then nightly sings, the staring owl,

‘Tu-whit, to-who!’

A merry note,

While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

When all aloud the wind doth blow

And coughing drowns the parson’s saw,

And birds sit brooding in thee snow,

And Marian’s nose looks red and raw,

Then nightly sings the staring owl,

‘Tu-whit, to-who!’

A merry note,

While Greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

William Shakespeare

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