The sun said, watching my watering-pot
“Some morn you’ll pass away;
These flowers and plants I parch up hot—
Who’ll water them that day?

“Those banks and beds whose shape your eye
Has planned in line so true,
New hands will change, unreasoning why
Such shape seemed best to you.

“Within your house will strangers sit,
And wonder how first it came;
They’ll talk of their schemes for improving it,
And will not mention your name.

“They’ll care not how, or when, or at what
You sighed, laughed, suffered here,
Though you feel more in an hour of the spot
Than they will feel in a year

“As I look on at you here, now,
Shall I look on at these;
But as to our old times, avow
No knowledge—hold my peace! . . .

“O friend, it matters not, I say;
Bethink ye, I have shined
On nobler ones than you, and they
Are dead men out of mind



Teen Nazmein

 a minor bird


I have wished a bird would fly away,

and not sing by my house all day;

have clapped my hands at him from the door

when it seemed as if I could bear no more

the fault must partly have been in me.

The bird was not to blame for his key

         And of course there must be something wrong

In wanting to silence any song

                                                                                     Robert Frost





maggie and milly and molly and may


maggy and milly and molly and may

went down to the beach (to play one day)

 and maggie discovered a shell that sang

so sweetly she couldn’t remember her troubles,and

 milly befriended a stranded star

whose rays five languid fingers were;

 and molly was chased by a horrible thing

which raced sideways while blowing bubbles: and

 may came home with a smooth round stone

as small as a world and as large as alone.

 For whatever we lose (like a you or a me)

It’s always ourselves we find in the sea






in a disused graveyard


the living come with grassy tread

to read the gravestones on the hill;

the graveyard draws the living still,

but never anymore the dead.

the verses in it say and say:

“the ones who living come today

to read the stones and go away

tomorrow dead will come to stay”

so sure of death the marbles rhyme,

yet can’t help marking all the time

how no one dead will seem to come.

What is it men are shrinking from?

It would be easy to be clever

And tell the stones: Men hate to die

And have stopped dying forever.

I think they would believe the lie

Robert Frost