As a fond mother, when the day is o'er, Leads by the hand her little child to bed, Half willing, half reluctant to be led, And leave his broken playthings on the floor, Still gazing at them through the open door, Nor wholly reassured and comforted By promises of others in their stead, Which, though more splendid, may not please him more; So Nature deals with us, and takes away Our playthings one by one, and by the hand Leads us to rest so gently, that we go Scarce knowing if we wish to go or stay, Being too full of sleep to understand How far the unknown transcends the what we know.
I saw, crawling out of the weeds, One quickstepping millipede. But, going daft, it's bow and stern Started to clash, and - as each turned - It tied itself in a knot.
My Spring sleep is unswayed by dawn -- Though birds are heard through screen, still drawn. Recalling night sounds of rain and wind, I wonder how the flowers have thinned?
The Hyena is renowned for its cackle-- Not so of bats, birds, snakes, whales or jackals. So, why such an intense sense of humor? Perhaps, it's just a human-lampooner.
For the Ostrich, I feel quite bad: The bird's great gift, it never had. But, a flighted one, I don't wish to see; I'd hate to have a falling one land on me.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 