Fear me, virgin whosoever
Taking pride from love exempt,
Fear me, slighted. Never, never
Brave me, nor my fury tempt:
Downy wings, but wroth they beat
Tempest even in reason's seat.

Three poets, in three distant ages born,
Greece, Italy, and England, did adorn.
The first, in loftiness of thought surpassed;
The next, in majesty; in both, the last.
The force of nature could no further go;
To make a third, she joined the former two.

I have a bone to pick with Fate.
Come here and tell me, girlie,
Do you think my mind is maturing late,
Or simply rotted early?

The South of Scotland did produce
Heroic Wallace and the Bruce,
And even time will never blot
The record of her Burns and Scott,
And Tannahil renowned Bard,
And that sweet songster Ettrick, shepherd.

With shadowy pen I write,
Till time be done,
Good news of some strange light,
Some far off sun.

A strong man weep, a fair girl die,
A boy in pain, a mother sigh.
These things do wring my heart well-nigh,
I know not why, I know not why.

limitations gone
since my mind fixed on the moon
clarity and serenity
make something for which
there's no end in sight

There was an Old Person of Tartary,
Who divided his jugular artery;
But he screeched to his wife,
And she said, 'Oh, my life!
Your death will be felt by all Tartary!'

There was an Old Person of Sparta,
Who had twenty-one sons and one 'darter';
He fed them on snails,
And weighed them in scales,
That wonderful Person of Sparta.

There was an Old Person of Spain,
Who hated all trouble and pain;
So he sat on a chair,
With his feet in the air,
That umbrageous Old Person of Spain.