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Poems Teachers Ask For, Book Two
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And he worried about it.
And the earth will become much too small for the race—
And he worried about it—
When we'll pay thirty dollars an inch for pure space—
And he worried about it.
The earth will be crowded so much, without doubt,
That there won't be room for one's tongue to stick out,
Nor room for one's thought to wander about—
And he worried about it.
And the Gulf Stream will curve, and New England grow torrider—
And he worried about it—
Than was ever the climate of southernmost Florida—
And he worried about it.
Our ice crop will be knocked into small smithereens,
And crocodiles block up our mowing-machines,
And we'll lose our fine crops of potatoes and beans—
And he worried about it.
And in less than ten thousand years, there's no doubt—
And he worried about it—
Our supply of lumber and coal will give out—
And he worried about it.
Just then the ice-age will return cold and raw,
Frozen men will stand stiff with arms outstretched in awe,
As if vainly beseeching a general thaw—
And he worried about it.
His wife took in washing—half a dollar a day—
He didn't worry about it—
His daughter sewed shirts the rude grocer to pay—
He didn't worry about it.
While his wife beat her tireless rub-a-dub-dub
On the washboard drum of her old wooden tub,
He sat by the stoves and he just let her rub—
He didn't worry about it.
Sam Walter Foss.
The President
No gilt or tinsel taints the dress
Of him who holds the natal power,
No weighty helmet's fastenings press
On brow that shares Columbia's dower,
No blaring trumpets mark the step
Of him with mind on peace intent,
And so—HATS OFF! Here comes the State,
A modest King:
THE PRESIDENT.
No cavalcade with galloping squads
Surrounds this man, whose mind controls
The actions of the million minds
Whose hearts the starry banner folds;
Instead, in simple garb he rides,
The King to whom grim Fate has lent
Her dower of righteousness and faith
To guide his will:
THE PRESIDENT.
The ancient lands are struck with awe,
Here stands a power at which they scoffed,
Kings, rulers, scribes of pristine states.
Are dazed,—at Columbia they mocked;
Yet human wills have forged new states,
Their wills on justice full intent,
And fashioned here a lowly King,
The People's choice:
THE PRESIDENT.
War-ravaged, spent, and torn—old worlds
With hatred rent, turn to the West,
"Give help!" they cry—"our souls are wracked,
On every side our kingdom's pressed."
And see! Columbia hastens forth,
Her healing hand to peace is lent,
Her sword unsheathed has forged the calm,
Her sons sent by
THE PRESIDENT.
Full many a storm has tossed the barque
Since first it had its maiden trip,
Full many a conflagration's spark
Has scorched and seared the laboring ship;
And yet it ploughs a straightway course,
Through wrack of billows; wind-tossed, spent,
On sails the troubled Ship of State,
Steered forward by
THE PRESIDENT.
STAND UP! HATS OFF! He's coming by,
No roll of drums peals at his course,
NOW GIVE A CHEER! He's part of you,
Your will with his: the nation's force.
And—as he passes—breathe a prayer,
May justice to his mind be lent,
And may the grace of Heaven be with
The man who rules:
And the earth will become much too small for the race—
And he worried about it—
When we'll pay thirty dollars an inch for pure space—
And he worried about it.
The earth will be crowded so much, without doubt,
That there won't be room for one's tongue to stick out,
Nor room for one's thought to wander about—
And he worried about it.
And the Gulf Stream will curve, and New England grow torrider—
And he worried about it—
Than was ever the climate of southernmost Florida—
And he worried about it.
Our ice crop will be knocked into small smithereens,
And crocodiles block up our mowing-machines,
And we'll lose our fine crops of potatoes and beans—
And he worried about it.
And in less than ten thousand years, there's no doubt—
And he worried about it—
Our supply of lumber and coal will give out—
And he worried about it.
Just then the ice-age will return cold and raw,
Frozen men will stand stiff with arms outstretched in awe,
As if vainly beseeching a general thaw—
And he worried about it.
His wife took in washing—half a dollar a day—
He didn't worry about it—
His daughter sewed shirts the rude grocer to pay—
He didn't worry about it.
While his wife beat her tireless rub-a-dub-dub
On the washboard drum of her old wooden tub,
He sat by the stoves and he just let her rub—
He didn't worry about it.
Sam Walter Foss.
The President
No gilt or tinsel taints the dress
Of him who holds the natal power,
No weighty helmet's fastenings press
On brow that shares Columbia's dower,
No blaring trumpets mark the step
Of him with mind on peace intent,
And so—HATS OFF! Here comes the State,
A modest King:
THE PRESIDENT.
No cavalcade with galloping squads
Surrounds this man, whose mind controls
The actions of the million minds
Whose hearts the starry banner folds;
Instead, in simple garb he rides,
The King to whom grim Fate has lent
Her dower of righteousness and faith
To guide his will:
THE PRESIDENT.
The ancient lands are struck with awe,
Here stands a power at which they scoffed,
Kings, rulers, scribes of pristine states.
Are dazed,—at Columbia they mocked;
Yet human wills have forged new states,
Their wills on justice full intent,
And fashioned here a lowly King,
The People's choice:
THE PRESIDENT.
War-ravaged, spent, and torn—old worlds
With hatred rent, turn to the West,
"Give help!" they cry—"our souls are wracked,
On every side our kingdom's pressed."
And see! Columbia hastens forth,
Her healing hand to peace is lent,
Her sword unsheathed has forged the calm,
Her sons sent by
THE PRESIDENT.
Full many a storm has tossed the barque
Since first it had its maiden trip,
Full many a conflagration's spark
Has scorched and seared the laboring ship;
And yet it ploughs a straightway course,
Through wrack of billows; wind-tossed, spent,
On sails the troubled Ship of State,
Steered forward by
THE PRESIDENT.
STAND UP! HATS OFF! He's coming by,
No roll of drums peals at his course,
NOW GIVE A CHEER! He's part of you,
Your will with his: the nation's force.
And—as he passes—breathe a prayer,
May justice to his mind be lent,
And may the grace of Heaven be with
The man who rules:
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Последний отзыв
Так получилось, что книга ко мне попала в тяжелый эмоциональный кризис и многое мне дала. Написано актуально, тут многих полезных вещей, никакого злоу...
Далее