…and potatoes soften nicely…
Some things that fly there be,—
Birds, hours, the bumble-bee:
Bats, flies, gnats, paper aeroplanes, fleas.
Some things that stay there be,—
Grief, hills, eternity:
Rocks, pennies on the ground, corpses and houses, usually.
There are, that resting, rise.
I mean the clouds. Meant to say the clouds.
The original. Image credit cited here.
Exhilaration is the Breeze
That lifts us from the ground
And leaves us in another place
That turns out to be an Indian burial mound;
Returns us not, but after time
We soberly descend,
A little newer for the term
We played with bones we found.
The original version. This has also been turned into a choral piece that even middle-schoolers can sing.
Look back on Tim with kindly eyes,
He doubtless did his best;
How straight he aimed his fiery gun—
But got hit first in chest.
The original, not actually about Tim. Image credit: Eugene Onegin’s Duel with Vladimir Lensky, by Ilya Repin.
Of freshwater bass to sea…