All that is gold does not glitter,

Not all those who wander are lost;

The old that is strong does not wither,

Deep roots are not reached by the frost.

From the ashes a fire shall be woken,

A light from the shadows shall spring;

Renewed shall be the blade that was broken,

The crownless again shall be king.

-J.R.R. Tolkien (The Lord of the Rings series)

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

"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 schoolboy, with his satchel And shining morning face, creeping like snail Unwillingly 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 honor, 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 lined, 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 slippered pantaloon, With spectacles on nose and pouch on side; His youthful hose, well saved, 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."

• William Shakespeare

SMOKE THROUGH A KEYHOLE

Life is an attic room

packed with memories,

old and new, shiny and sharp,

broken or patched together.

They are piled where they fell,

one atop the other,

hiding older ones

beneath the new.

A trunk full of this,

and a case of those,

a few of these spilled across the space.

The bits of ephemera

collected through a lifetime

that define not only

where we have been,

but what we have brought back.

Each time we draw in

we pull another memory

into the attic of our soul,

disturb the dust,

refresh the contact

with what we were,

to build

what we are.

Some moments we waste,

and others we carve

our initials on,

tying them to our soul,

chaining them

to ourselves,

making them ours.

And as we move through

Time’s pathways

to the next beginning,

we leave the room

empty, a bit at a time,

smoke through a keyhole.

A fart is a pleasant thing,

It gives the belly ease.

It warms the bed in winter

And suffocates the fleas.

A fart can be quiet,

A fart can be loud.

Some leave a powerful

But poisonous cloud.

A fart can be short

Or a fart can be long.

Some farts have been known

To sound like a song.

A fart can create

A most curious medley.

A fart can be harmless

Or silent and deadly.

A fart might not smell,

While others are quite vile.

A fart may pass quickly

Or linger a while.

A fart can occur

In a number of places.

And leave everyone there

With strange looks on their faces.

From wide-open prairies,

To small elevators,

A fart will find us all,

Sooner or later!

Page and Strozk,

Sitting in a tree,

T – E – X – T – I – N – G!

First comes TREASON,

Dems in Confusion!

When Sessions drops the HAMMER

Russian Witch Hunt sees its Conclusion!

https://www.neonrevolt.com/2018/04/26/a-legend-exposed-a-renegade-in-the-killbox-and-the-sleeper-has-awakened-releasethetexts-qanon-newq-greatawakening/

We come from the land of the ice and snow
From the midnight sun where the hot springs flow
How soft your fields so green
Can whisper tales of gore
Of how we calmed the tides of war
We are your overlords
On we sweep with threshing oar
Our only goal will be the western shore
So now you'd better stop and rebuild all your ruins
For peace and trust can win the day despite of all your losing

Dearest creature in creation,

Study English pronunciation.

I will teach you in my verse

Sounds like corpse, corps, horse, and worse.

I will keep you, Suzy, busy,

Make your head with heat grow dizzy.

Tear in eye, your dress will tear.

So shall I! Oh hear my prayer.

Pray, console your loving poet,

Make my coat look new, dear, sew it!

Just compare heart, beard, and heard,

Dies and diet, lord and word, Sword and sward, retain and Britain.

(Mind the latter, how it's written.)

Now I surely will not plague you

With such words as plaque and ague.

But be careful how you speak:

Say break and steak, but bleak and streak;

Cloven, oven, how and low,

Script, receipt, show, poem, and toe.

Hear me say, devoid of trickery,

Daughter, laughter, and Terpsichore,

Typhoid, measles, topsails, aisles,

Exiles, similes, and reviles;

Scholar, vicar, and cigar,

Solar, mica, war and far;

One, anemone, Balmoral,

Kitchen, lichen, laundry, laurel;

Gertrude, German, wind and mind,

Scene, Melpomene, mankind.

Billet does not rhyme with ballet,

Bouquet, wallet, mallet, chalet.

Blood and flood are not like food,

Nor is mould like should and would.

Viscous, viscount, load and broad,

Toward, to forward, to reward.

And your pronunciation's OK

When you correctly say croquet,

Rounded, wounded, grieve and sieve,

Friend and fiend, alive and live.

Ivy, privy, famous; clamour

And enamour rhyme with hammer.

River, rival, tomb, bomb, comb,

Doll and roll and some and home.

Stranger does not rhyme with anger,

Neither does devour with clangour.

Souls but foul, haunt but aunt,

Font, front, wont, want, grand, and grant,

Shoes, goes, does. Now first say finger,

And then singer, ginger, linger,

Real, zeal, mauve, gauze, gouge and gauge,

Marriage, foliage, mirage, and age.

Compare alien with Italian,

Dandelion and battalion.

Sally with ally, yea, ye,

Eye, I, ay, aye, whey, and key.

Say aver, but ever, fever,

Neither, leisure, skein, deceiver.

Heron, granary, canary.

Crevice and device and aerie.

Pronunciation -- think of Psyche!

Is a paling stout and spikey?

Won't it make you lose your wits,

Writing groats and saying grits?

It's a dark abyss or tunnel:

Strewn with stones, stowed, solace, gunwale,

Islington and Isle of Wight,

Housewife, verdict and indict.

Finally, which rhymes with enough --

Though, through, plough, or dough, or cough?

Hiccough has the sound of cup.

My advice is to give up!!!

A Casualty

 

That boy I took in the car last night,

With the body that awfully sagged away,

And the lips blood-crisped, and the eyes flame-bright,

And the poor hands folded and cold as clay --

Oh, I've thought and I've thought of him all the day.

 

For the weary old doctor says to me:

"He'll only last for an hour or so.

Both of his legs below the knee

Blown off by a bomb. . . . So, lad, go slow,

 

And please remember, he doesn't know."

So I tried to drive with never a jar;

And there was I cursing the road like mad,

When I hears a ghost of a voice from the car:

"Tell me, old chap, have I `copped it' bad?"

So I answers "No," and he says, "I'm glad."

 

"Glad," says he, "for at twenty-two

Life's so splendid, I hate to go.

There's so much good that a chap might do,

And I've fought from the start and I've suffered so.

'Twould be hard to get knocked out now, you know."

 

"Forget it," says I; then I drove awhile,

And I passed him a cheery word or two;

But he didn't answer for many a mile,

So just as the hospital hove in view,

Says I: "Is there nothing that I can do?"

 

Then he opens his eyes and he smiles at me;

And he takes my hand in his trembling hold;

"Thank you -- you're far too kind," says he:

"I'm awfully comfy -- stay . . . let's see:

I fancy my blanket's come unrolled --

My feet, please wrap 'em -- they're cold . . . they're cold."