If you could meet a historical figure, who would it be and why?
Assuming no babel fish technology – i.e. that we’d need a common language – I’d say William Blake, Walt Whitman, or Mark Twain. The latter would probably be the most fun, the middle the most uplifting, and the first the most insightful (or perhaps most mystical.)
after Spring rains, puddles throw reflections of light-fringed clouds.
counting ears to learn how many cats, but how deep 's the pile?
The pounding sound of rhythmic drums shatters stillness this eve. I know not whether snares are banged to celebrate or grieve. The pace isn't slow enough to guide a somber procession, nor does it race at the pace of jocular expression. It's a well-kept beat, approaching, that makes the windows shake, but seems suitable only for keeping me awake.
Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame, With conquering limbs astride from land to land; Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame. "Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"
a troop of langurs: five monkeys doing five things as one family.
The waves are crashing on the shore, and I am crawling up the beach. The pounding surf sounds like a roar as I am fleeing water's reach. Don't let it take me, I beseech! Don't give the beast a second chance. It had a turn, but now 's in breach. It's met the bounds of its expanse. And I hear no drums of ghost dance to summon it up onto land. I twist my head to take a glance, and all I see is endless sand.
I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear, Those of mechanics, each one singing his as it should be blithe and strong, The carpenter singing his as he measures his plank or beam, The mason singing his as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work, The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat, the deckhand singing on the steamboat deck, The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench, the hatter singing as he stands, The wood-cutter's song, the ploughboy's on his way in the morning, or at noon intermission or at sundown, The delicious singing of the mother, or of the young wife at work, or of the girl sewing or washing, Each singing what belongs to him or her and none else, The day what belongs to the day -- at night the party of young fellows, robust, friendly, Singing with open mouths their strong melodious songs.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 