Mice by Rose Fyleman
|I think mice are rather nice.
Their tails are long, their faces small,
They haven’t got any chins at all.
Their ears are pink, their teeth are white.
|They run about the house at night.
They nibble things they shouldn’t touch
And no one seems to like them much.
But I think mice are very nice.
|Each day I’ll do my best,
And I won’t do any less.
My work will always please me,
And I won’t accept a mess.
I’ll colour very carefully,
My writing will be neat.
And I simply won’t be happy
‘Till my papers are complete.
I’ll always do my homework,
And I’ll try on every test.
And I won’t forget my promise –
To do my very best!
The Gift Of Life
Life is a night all dark and wild,
Yet still stars shine:
This moment is a star, my child —
Your star and mine.
Life is a desert dry and drear,
This hour is an oasis, dear;
Here let us rest.
Life is a sea of windy spray,
Cold, fierce and free:
An isle enchanted is to-day
For you and me.
Forget night, sea, and desert: take
The gift supreme,
And, of life’s brief relenting, make
A deathless dream.
Lawrence Sail. The Fullness of Glory
What narrative can move the silence on,
What silence appropriate the cries
Of those abandoned day after day by any
Hope of simple justice or of mercy?
It is more than our curiosity
Which betrays us. Yesterday, how peacefully
The stars shone! And any fruit, cut open,
Models the pure cosmology of perfection.
Propped on the Easter altar, the book still trails
Its markers of gold fire, imperial purple,
Dark crimson. Each week, from its spread pages,
Is read Heaven and earth are full of Thy glory.
The contexts accrue — another starving child
Hunching over the wreck of its own poor bones;
And, after stories censored by curt gunfire,
Accusations that hang like smoke in the silence.