Heheheh. Just so.

now and then
there is a person born
who is so unlucky
that he runs into accidents
which started out to happen
to somebody else.

Poem by Archy the cockroach for Don Marquis, written by him jumping on the keys of a typewriter.

Old poem about the soul by Mary Elizabeth Frye. Angela.

Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there; I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow,
I am the sun on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circling flight.
I am the soft starlight at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there; I did not die.

Suicide off Egg Rock, Sylvia Plath.

Behind him the hotdogs split and drizzled 
On the public grills, and the ochreous salt flats, 
Gas tanks, factory stacks- that landscape 
Of imperfections his bowels were part of- 
Rippled and pulsed in the glassy updraught. 
Sun struck the water like a damnation. 
No pit of shadow to crawl into, 
And his blood beating the old tattoo 
I am, I am, I am. Children 
Were squealing where combers broke and the spindrift 
Raveled wind-ripped from the crest of the wave. 
A mongrel working his legs to a gallop 
Hustled a gull flock to flap off the sandspit. 

He smoldered, as if stone-deaf, blindfold, 
His body beached with the sea’s garbage, 
A machine to breathe and beat forever. 
Flies filing in through a dead skate’s eyehole 
Buzzed and assailed the vaulted brainchamber. 
The words in his book wormed off the pages. 
Everything glittered like blank paper. 

Everything shrank in the sun’s corrosive 
Ray but Egg Rock on the blue wastage. 
He heard when he walked into the water 
The forgetful surf creaming on those ledges.

• — A Song of Wandering Aengus

  I went out to the hazel wood,

  Because a fire was in my head,

  And cut and peeled a hazel wand,

  And hooked a berry to a thread;

  And when white moths were on the wing,

  And moth-like stars were flickering out,

  I dropped the berry in a stream

  And caught a little silver trout.

  W.B. Yeats

   

  –The thought fox.

  […] Cold, delicately as the dark snow

  A fox’s nose touches twig, leaf. […]

  Ted Hughes

   

  –Silver

  Slowly, silently, now the moon

  Walks the night in her silver shoon;

  This way, and that, she peers, and sees

  Silver fruit upon silver trees;

   

  […] Couched in his kennel, like a log,

  With paws of silver sleeps the dog;

  […] A harvest mouse goes scampering by,

  With silver claws, and silver eye;

  And moveless fish in the water gleam,

  By silver reeds in a silver stream.

  Walter de la Mare

   

  –The Owl and the Pussy-cat

  […] The Owl looked up to the stars above,

  And sang to a small guitar,

  ‘O lovely Pussy! O Pussy my love,

  What a beautiful Pussy you are, You are, You are!

  What a beautiful Pussy you are!’ […]

  ‘Dear pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling

  Your ring?’ Said the Piggy, ‘I will.’

  So they took it away, and were married next day

  By the Turkey who lives on the hill.

  They dined on mince, and slices of quince,

  Which they ate with a runcible spoon;

  And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,

  They danced by the light of the moon,

  The moon, The moon,

  They danced by the light of the moon

  Edward Lear

   

  –Macavity The Mystery Cat

  Macavity’s a Mystery Cat: he’s called the Hidden Paw– […]

  He’s outwardly respectable. (They say he cheats at cards.)

  And his footprints are not found in any file of Scotland Yard’s.

  And when the larder’s looted, or the jewel-case is rifled,

  Or when the milk is missing, or another Peke’s been stifled,

  Or the greenhouse glass is broken, and the trellis past repair–

  Ay, there’s the wonder of the thing! Macavity’s not there!

   

  And when the Foreign Office finds a Treaty’s gone astray,

  Or the Admiralty lose some plans and drawings by the way,

  There may be a scap of paper in the hall or on the stair–

  But it’s useless of investigate–Macavity’s not there!

  And when the loss has been disclosed, the Secret Service say:

  “It must have been Macavity!”–but he’s a mile away.

  You’ll be sure to find him resting, or a-licking of his thumbs,

  Or engaged in doing complicated long division sums.

  T S Eliot