The dinosaur,
And dodo bird,
No longer walk the ground,
Those are two that disappeared,
They’re nowhere to be found…
It’s not good to be extinct,
It means you don’t exist,
Let me try to be succinct,
I’ll only tell you this…
Over-hunting or pollution,
Cutting woods for wood,
Are threatening some special species,
It’s not so very good…
Endangered species are at risk,
And soon they’ll disappear,
Protecting them is pretty cool,
I think that’s pretty clear…
So let’s protect the pristine places,
Living things call home,
Preventing any more extinctions,
Lets all species roam!
Wednesday, August 12, 2020
The Rhyming Poem (10th century) Anonymous
The Rhyming Poem (10th century)
Me līfes onlāh se þis lēoht onwrāh,ond þæt torhte getēoh, tillīce onwrāh.
Glæd wæs ic glīwum, glenged hīwum,
blissa blēoum, blōstma hīwum.
Secgas mec sēgon, symbel ne alēgon,
feorhgiefe gefēgon; frætwed wǣgon
wicg ofer wongum wennan gongum,
lisse mid longum lēoma gehongum.
Þā wæs wæstmum aweaht, world onspreht,
under roderum areaht, rǣdmægne oferþeaht.
Giestas gengdon, gērscype mengdon,
lisse lengdon, lustum glengdon.
Scrifen scrād glād þurh gescād in brād,
wæs on lagustrēame lād, þǣr me leoþu ne biglād.
Hæfde ic hēanne hād, ne wæs me in healle gād,
þæt þǣr rōf weord rād. Oft þǣr rinc gebād,
þæt hē in sele sǣge sincgewǣge,
þegnum geþyhte. Þenden wæs me mægen,
horsce mec heredon, hilde generedon,
fægre feredon, feondon biweredon.
Swā mec hyhtgiefu heold, hygedryht befeold,
staþol ǣhtum steald, stepegongum wēold
swylce eorþe ōl, āhte ic ealdorstōl,
galdorwordum gōl. Gomel sibbe ne ofōll,
āc wæs gefest gēar, gellende snēr,
wuniendo wǣr wilbec bescǣr.
Scealcas wǣron scearpe, scyl wæs hearpe,
hlūde hlynede, hlēoþor dynede,
sweglrād swinsade, swīþe ne minsade.
Burgsele beofode, beorht hlifade,
ellen ēacnade, ēad bēacnade,
frēaum frōdade, fromum gōdade,
mōd mægnade, mine fægnade,
trēow telgade, tīr welgade,
blæd blissade,
gold gearwade, gim hwearfade,
sinc searwade, sib nearwade.
From ic wæs in frætwum, frēolic in geatwum;
wæs mīn drēam dryhtlic, drohtað hyhtlic.
Foldan ic freoþode, folcum ic lēoþode,
līf wæs mīn longe, lēodum ingemonge,
tīrum getonge, teala gehonge.
Nū mīn hreþer is hrēoh, hēofsīþum scēoh,
nȳdbysgum nēah; gewīteð nihtes in flēah
se ǣr in dæge wæs dȳre. Scrīþeð nū dēop in fēore
brondhord geblōwen, brēostum in forgrōwen,
flyhtum tōflōwen. Flāh is geblōwen
miclum in gemynde; mōdes gecynde
grēteð ungrynde grorn efen wynde,
bealofūs byrneð, bittre tōyrneð.
Werig winneð, wīdsīð onginneð,
sār ne sinniþ, sorgum cinnið,
blæd his blinnið, blisse linnið,
listum linneð, lustum ne tinneð.
Dreamas swa her gedreosað, dryhtscype gehreosað,
lif her men forleosað, leahtras oft geceosað;
treowþrag is to trag, seo untrume genag,
steapum eatole misþah, ond eal stund genag.
Swa nu world wendeþ, wyrde sendeþ,
ond hetes henteð, hæleþe scyndeð.
Wercyn gewiteð, wælgar sliteð,
flahmah fliteþ, flan mon hwiteð,
borgsorg biteð, bald ald þwiteþ,
wræcfæc wriþað, wraþ að smiteþ,
singryn sidað, searofearo glideþ,
gromtorn græfeþ, græft hafað,
searohwit solaþ, sumurhat colað,
foldwela fealleð, feondscipe wealleð,
eorðmægen ealdaþ, ellen colað.
Me þæt wyrd gewæf, ond gewyrht forgeaf,
þæt ic grofe græf, ond þæt grimme græf
flean flæsce ne mæg, þonne flanhred dæg
nydgrapum nimeþ, þonne seo neaht becymeð
seo me eðles ofonn ond mec her eardes onconn.
Þonne lichoma ligeð, lima wyrm friteþ,
ac him wenne gewigeð ond þa wist geþygeð,
oþþæt beoþ þa ban an,
ond æt nyhstan nan nefne se neda tan
balawun her gehloten. Ne biþ se hlisa adroren.
Ær þæt eadig geþenceð, he hine þe oftor swenceð,
byrgeð him þa bitran synne, hogaþ to þære betran wynne,
gemon morþa lisse, þær sindon miltsa blisse
hyhtlice in heofona rice. Uton nu halgum gelice
scyldum biscyrede scyndan generede,
wommum biwerede, wuldre generede,
þær moncyn mot for meotude rot
soðne god geseon, ond aa in sibbe gefean.
“THE PRINCESS HAS HER LOVERS” By Sara Teasdale
“THE PRINCESS HAS HER LOVERS”
The princess has her lovers,
A score of knights has she,
And each can sing a madrigal,
And praise her gracefully.
But Love, who is so bitter,
Hath put within her heart
A longing for the scornful knight
Who, silent, stands apart.
And though the others praise and plead,
She maketh no reply,
Yet for a single word from him
I ween that she would die.
A score of knights has she,
And each can sing a madrigal,
And praise her gracefully.
But Love, who is so bitter,
Hath put within her heart
A longing for the scornful knight
Who, silent, stands apart.
And though the others praise and plead,
She maketh no reply,
Yet for a single word from him
I ween that she would die.
There Will Come Soft Rains Sara Teasdale - 1884-1933
There Will Come Soft Rains
(War Time)
There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground,
And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;
And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;
And frogs in the pools singing at night,
And wild plum trees in tremulous white,
And wild plum trees in tremulous white,
Robins will wear their feathery fire
Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;
Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;
And not one will know of the war, not one
Will care at last when it is done.
Will care at last when it is done.
Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree
If mankind perished utterly;
If mankind perished utterly;
And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn,
Would scarcely know that we were gone.
Would scarcely know that we were gone.
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