The maples have grown old; Orchards have begun to wither. The reds and greens have faded. Climbing the heights, I Feel the chill of late Autumn. A ceaseless pounding sound Drowns out the setting sun. Remembered sorrows flock To mind, making new sorrows. We are separated By a thousand miles; From our two distant places We can't even meet in dreams. The rain stops, and the sky clears; One can see the twelve green peaks. Speechless, who could understand My angst, as I stand cliffside. I can write of my grief, but Will the clouds bring a reply?
There once was a team of architects Who double and triple checked the specs. But they faced a plight 'Cause left didn't check right -- So, the building's hunchback was hard to detect.
All the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely players: They have their exits and their entrances; And one man in his time plays many parts, His acts being seven ages. At first the infant, Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms; Then the whining school-boy, with his satchel And shining morning face, creeping like a snail Unwilling to school. And then the lover, Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier, Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard, Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel, Seeking the bubble reputation Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice, In fair round belly with good capon lin'd, With eyes severe and beard of formal cut, Full of wise saws and modern instances; And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon, With spectacles on nose and pouch on side. His youthful hose, well sav'd, a world too wide For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice, Turning again toward childish treble, pipes And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all, That ends this strange eventful history, Is second childishness and mere oblivion; Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
NOTE: Sometimes called the “Seven Ages of Man,” this soliloquy is spoken by Jacques in Act II: Sc. 7 of As You Like It.
There was an up-and-coming modern artist Who went by the pseudonym "Arthur Fartist." He painted with flair From his derriere, 'Til critics judged his work, "not the smartest."
The thirsty Earth soaks up the Rain, And drinks, and gapes for drink again. The Plants suck in the Earth, and are With constant drinking fresh and faire. The Sea itself, which one would think Should have but little need of Drink, Drinks ten thousand Rivers up, So fill'd that they o'erflow the Cup. The busy Sun (and one would guess By 's drunken fiery face no less) Drinks up the Sea, and when he's done, The Moon and Stars drink up the Sun. They drink and dance by their own light, They drink and revel all the night. Nothing in Nature 's Sober found, But an eternal Health goes round. Fill up the Bowl then, fill it high, Fill all the Glasses there, for why Should every creature drink but I, Why, Man of Morals, tell me why?
Some say the world will end in fire, Some say in ice. From what I've tasted of desire I hold with those who favor fire. But if it had to perish twice, I think I know enough of hate To say that for destruction ice Is also great And would suffice.
One had a lovely face, And two or three had charm, But charm and face were in vain Because the mountain grass Cannot but keep the form Where the mountain hare has lain.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 