365 Poems 7 & 8.

I was at the Art Museum yesterday. And also tired.  Anyway, here's yesterday's poem:

Hot Actor: Wentworth Miller.

The Crocodile 
 by Lewis Carroll
 How doth the little crocodile
 Improve his shining tail,
 And pour the waters of the Nile
 On every golden scale!

 How cheerfully he seems to grin,
 How neatly spreads his claws,
 And welcomes little fishes in,
 With gently smiling jaws!

Hot Actress: Alyson Hannigan

And here is today's:


The Kitten And The Falling Leaves
by William Wordsworth

That way look, my Infant, lo!
What a pretty baby show!
See the Kitten on the Wall,
Sporting with the leaves that fall,
Wither'd leaves, one, two, and three,
From the lofty Elder-tree!
Through the calm and frosty air
Of this morning bright and fair,
Eddying round and round they sink
Softly, slowly: one might think,
From the motions that are made,
Every little leaf convey'd
Sylph or Faery hither tending,
To this lower world descending,
Each invisible and mute,
In his wavering parachute.
--But the Kitten, how she starts,
Crouches, stretches, paws, and darts;
First at one and then it's fellow
Just as light and just as yellow;
There are many now--now one--
Now they stop; and there are none--
What intenseness of desire
In her upward eye of fire!
With a tiger-leap half way
Now she meets the coming prey,
Lets it go as fast, and then
Has it in her power again:
Now she works with three or four,
Like an Indian Conjuror;
Quick as he in feats of art,
Far beyond in joy of heart.
Were her antics play'd in the eye
Of a thousand Standers-by,
Clapping hands with shout and stare,
What would little Tabby care
For the plaudits of the Crowd?
Over happy to be proud,
Over wealthy in the treasure
Of her own exceeding pleasure!

'Tis a pretty Baby-treat;
Nor, I deem, for me unmeet:
Here, for neither Babe or me,
Other Play-mate can I see.
Of the countless living things,
That with stir of feet and wings,
(In the sun or under shade
Upon bough or grassy blade)
And with busy revellings,
Chirp and song, and murmurings,
Made this Orchard's narrow space,
And this Vale so blithe a place;
Multitudes are swept away
Never more to breathe the day:
Some are sleeping; some in Bands
Travell'd into distant Lands;
Others slunk to moor and wood,
Far from human neighbourhood,
And, among the Kinds that keep
With us closer fellowship,
With us openly abide,
All have laid their mirth aside,
--Where is he that giddy Sprite,
Blue-cap, with his colours bright,
Who was blest as bird could be,
Feeding in the apple-tree,
Made such wanton spoil and rout,
Turning blossoms inside out,
Hung with head towards the ground,
Flutter'd, perch'd; into a round
Bound himself, and then unbound;
Lithest, gaudiest Harlequin,
Prettiest Tumbler ever seen,
Light of heart, and light of limb,
What is now become of Him?
Lambs, that through the mountains went
Frisking, bleating merriment,
When the year was in it's prime,
They are sober'd by this time.
If you look to vale or hill,
If you listen, all is still,
Save a little neighbouring Rill;
That from out the rocky ground
Strikes a solitary sound.
Vainly glitters hill and plain,
And the air is calm in vain;
Vainly Morning spreads the lure
Of a sky serene and pure;
Creature none can she decoy
Into open sign of joy:
Is it that they have a fear
Of the dreary season near?
Or that other pleasures be
Sweeter even than gaiety?

Yet, whate'er enjoyments dwell

In the impenetrable cell

Of the silent heart which Nature

Furnishes to every Creature,

Whatsoe'er we feel and know

Too sedate for outward show,

Such a light of gladness breaks,

Pretty Kitten! from thy freaks,

Spreads with such a living grace

O'er my little Laura's face;

Yes, the sight so stirs and charms

Thee, Baby, laughing in my arms,

That almost I could repine

That your transports are not mine,

That I do not wholly fare

Even as ye do, thoughtless Pair!

And I will have my careless season

Spite of melancholy reason,

Will walk through life in such a way

That, when time brings on decay,

Now and then I may possess

Hours of perfect gladsomeness.

--Pleas'd by any random toy;

By a Kitten's busy joy,

Or an infant's laughing eye

Sharing in the extacy;

I would fare like that or this,

Find my wisdom in my bliss;

Keep the sprightly soul awake,

And have faculties to take

Even from things by sorrow wrought

Matter for a jocund thought;

Spite of care, and spite of grief,

To gambol with Life's falling Leaf.

What I think is instructive about that last one is that since it's a common joke to say that the Internet exists for and/or was built by cat videos and pictures, think about it this way: hundreds of years ago, poetry was the world's internet -- and Wordworth's poem is essentially a Brahmin LOLcat.