Skip to main content

The Swing

    How do you like to go up in a swing, 
    Up in the air so blue. 
            
         Oh! I think, it is the pleasantest thing,
          Ever a child can do! 
    Up in the air and over the wall, 
    Till I can see so wide. 

           Rivers, trees, cattel and all, 
           Over the countryside. 
 
     Till look down to the garden, 
     Down on the roof so brown. 
      
               Up in the air I go flying again, 
               Up in the air and down. 



                                  -Robert Louis Stevenson 

    

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Childhood

                    When did my childhood go?            Was it the day I ceased to be eleven,             Was it the time I realised that Hell and Heaven,              Could not be found in Geography,               And therefore could not be,               Was that the day!                   When did my childhood go?        Was it the time I realised that adults were not all they seemed to be,  They talked of love and preached of love,  But did not act so lovingly,     Was that the day!                 When did my childhood  go?  Was it when I found my mind was really ...
1 comment
Read more

The Voice of The Rain

                                                                - by.   Walt Whitman  And who are thou? Said I to soft-falling  shower,  Which, strange to tell, gave me an answer,  as here translated: I am the poem of Earth, said the voice of the rain,  Eternal I rise impalpable out of the land and the bottomless sea,   Upward to heaven, whence, vaguely  from 'd,  altogether changed, and yet the same, I descend to lave the droughts,  atomies, dust-layers of the globe,  And all that in them without me were seeds only, latent, unborn;                                    And forever, by day and night, I give back life to my own origin, ...
Post a Comment
Read more

A Tiger in The Zoo

                        Poem of the day.                                                    by-  Leslie Norris                       He stalks in his vivid stripes      The few steps of his cage,        On pads of velvet quite,         In his quite rage,             He should be lurking in shadow,      Sliding through long grass      Near the water hole       Where plump deer pass.       He should be snarling around houses      At the jungle's edge,       Baring his white fangs, his claws,    ...
Post a Comment
Read more