Classic poem of the day
To spring belongs the violet, and the blown
Spice of the roses let the summer own.
Grant me this favor, Muse—all else withhold—
That I may not write verse when I am old.
And yet I pray you, Muse, delay the time!
Be not too ready to deny me rhyme;
And when the hour strikes, as it must, dear Muse,
I beg you very gently break the news.
Member poem of the day
A rooster rises early in the morn. He struts around at dawn. His voice can be heard, though he utters not a word. He starts his day, crowing and afraid. "Like the rooster rise to the occassion of each new day with a heart that's prepared."
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