Monday's Child Is Fair Of Face

Monday's child is fair of face,

Tuesday's child is full of grace,

Wednesday's child is full of woe,

Thursday's child has far to go,

Friday's child is loving and giving,

Saturday's child works hard for a living,

But the child who is born on the Sabbath Day

Is bonny and blithe and good and gay

The Old House

The old house sits sad and alone,
Remembering days it was a home,
Now it cracks and leans and creaks,
And frowns at the rain when it leaks.

In every breeze it moans and groans,
Chilled to its rickety timber bones,
It cannot withstand another storm,
An old wreck it will form.

The empty eyes are mourning,
Each forgotten, pleasant morning,
The old house was a home,
But now it sits sad and alone.

3D Bunny Chicken!

I maid this on Tinkrad :

My Wee Little Cabin

I live in a wee little cabin,

That smells of the finest things,

Of cinnamon, of ginger, nutmeg, and pine,

And sometimes some blueberry muffins of mine.

It’s small; it’s dear; it’s a gingerbread house,

My wee elfin yard is a woodsy hollow,

With trees a-swishing and birds a-singing,

And wee little me just happily living.

By Aurora J Pass

Something Told The Wild Geese!

Something told the wild geese
It was time to go,
Though the fields lay golden
Something whispered, "snow."

Leaves were green and stirring,
Berries, luster-glossed,
But beneath warm feathers
Something cautioned, "frost."

All the sagging orchards
Steamed with amber spice,
But each wild breast stiffened
At remembered ice.

Something told the wild geese
It was time to fly,
Summer sun was on their wings,
Winter in their cry.

Rachel Field

The Hawk!

I stare
I glare
I gaze
I gawk
With keen
Mean eyes
I am the hawk.
All day I pray
For prey to view.
Be thankful if
I don’t
see
YOU!

Douglas Florian

Stopping By The Woods On A Snowy Evening!

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

Robert Frost