Wendy Bousfield also found us Suppose & Ulalume …
Suppose
BY PHOEBE CARY
Suppose, my little lady,
Your doll should break her head,
Could you make it whole by crying
Till your eyes and nose are red?
And would n’t it be pleasanter
To treat it as a joke;
And say you ’re glad “’T was Dolly’s
And not your head that broke?”
Suppose you ’re dressed for walking,
And the rain comes pouring down,
Will it clear off any sooner
Because you scold and frown?
And would n’t it be nicer
For you to smile than pout,
And so make sunshine in the house
When there is none without?
Suppose your task, my little man,
Is very hard to get,
Will it make it any easier
For you to sit and fret?
And would n’t it be wiser
Than waiting like a dunce,
To go to work in earnest
And learn the thing at once?
Suppose that some boys have a horse,
And some a coach and pair,
Will it tire you less while walking
To say, “It is n’t fair?”
And would n’t it be nobler
To keep your temper sweet,
And in your heart be thankful
You can walk upon your feet?
And suppose the world don’t please you,
Nor the way some people do,
Do you think the whole creation
Will be altered just for you?
And is n’t it, my boy or girl,
The wisest, bravest plan,
Whatever comes, or does n’t come,
To do the best you can?
(Phoebe Carey (1824-1871) was a Cincinnati poet. She and her sister published Poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary in 1848, Even allowing for more didactic taste in children’s poetry in 19th century, “Suppose” is over-the-top saccharin! ~ Wendy Bousfield)
Ulalume
Said we, then—the two, then—”Ah, can it
Have been that the woodlandish ghouls—
The pitiful, the merciful ghouls—
To bar up our way and to ban it
From the secret that lies in these wolds—
From the thing that lies hidden in these wolds—
Had drawn up the spectre of a planet
From the limbo of lunary souls—
This sinfully scintillant planet
From the Hell of the planetary souls?”
~ Edgar Allan Poe
(Note from Wendy:
It’s possible for a glorious poem to include atrocious writing. Poe’s “Ulalume” is one of my favorite poems in the English language. However, the last stanza is Poe’s worst writing that I know. If only he had had the sense to end with the wonderful stanza immediately preceding!)
Dear Donald Trump,
Roses are red,
Like, so red.
So red, you won’t even believe that
they’re real roses.
Trust me, I know roses.
And these roses are red.
by Adam Chase & Jamie Large (and contributed by Ann Campbell)