Mother, oh Mother, come shake out your cloth,Empty the dustpan, poison the moth,Hang out the washing and butter the bread,Sew on a button and make up a bed.Where is the mother whose house is so shocking?She’s up in the nursery, blissfully rocking. Oh, I’ve grown shiftless as Little Boy Blue(Lullaby, rockaby, lullaby loo).Dishes are waiting …
Yet as I saw it, I see it again, The kirk and the palace, the ships and the men, And as long as I live and where'er I may be, I'll always remember my town by the sea.
The way a crowShook down on meThe dust of snowFrom a hemlock tree Has given my heartA change of moodAnd saved some partOf a day I had rued. I've mentioned before in previous posts that I have a particular love of short poetry. This piece is no different. I think I first read Frost's poem …
"An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small, In blast-beruffled plume, Had chosen thus to fling his soul Upon the growing gloom."
Do not go gentle into that good night,Old age should burn and rave at close of day;Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Though wise men at their end know dark is right,Because their words had forked no lightning theyDo not go gentle into that good night. Good men, the last wave by, crying …
Continue reading Poetry: Thomas – Do not go gentle into that good night
Madelyn Rose Craig 