by Edgar Allen Poe
Science! true daughter of Old Time thou art!
Who alterest all things with thy peering eyes.
Why preyest thou thus upon the poet’s heart,
Vulture, whose wings are dull realities?
How should he love thee? or how deem thee wise,
Who wouldst not leave him in his wandering
To seek for treasure in the jewelled skies,
Albeit he soared with an undaunted wing?
Hast thou not dragged Diana from her car,
And driven the Hamadryad from the wood
To seek a shelter in some happier star?
Hast thou not torn the Naiad from her flood,
The Elfin from the green grass, and from me
The summer dream beneath the tamarind tree?
By T. A. Fry
Crooked handle, points of light,
Ladle full of black delight,
Obscured from sight or burning bright,
The dipper points due north.
It’s infinite, a soup of dreams.
Laughter broth with tiger cream,
Pig-tailed girls, little boys lean
Who dare to venture forth.
What of those who turn away?
Or hunker down and choose to stay.
Who hate the night, embrace the day,
And face the sunshine south.
Restraint is in the milky way,
River of light, come what may.
For roosters crow and donkeys bray
With a smiling mouth.
Then there’s those that love the moon.
It’s gentle light, a babies croon,
A swooping owl, a laughing loon,
Peace rises in the east.
The moon it waxes and it wanes,
Outside our doors and window panes.
Old or young, it’s all the same.
The grateful at a feast.
Adventurers and nestled stones,
Withered muscle, sturdy bone,
A crowded dance or home alone,
Our lonely sun sails west.
The sun it rises and it sets,
The miser saves, the gambler bets
A desert’s dry, an ocean’s wet,
Your love my welcome guest.
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