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Dream Deferred - Poem by Langston Hughes

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What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
Like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore--
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?

Dream Deferred - L. Hughes

Wherever I am, there's always Pooh,
There's always Pooh and Me.
Whatever I do, he wants to do,
"Where are you going today?" says Pooh:
"Well, that's very odd 'cos I was too.
Let's go together," says Pooh, says he.
"Let's go together," says Pooh.

"What's twice eleven?" I said to Pooh.
("Twice what?" said Pooh to Me.)
"I think it ought to be twenty-two."
"Just what I think myself," said Pooh.
"It wasn't an easy sum to do,
But that's what it is," said Pooh, said he.
"That's what it is," said Pooh.

"Let's look for dragons," I said to Pooh.
"Yes, let's," said Pooh to Me.
We crossed the river and found a few-
"Yes, those are dragons all right," said Pooh.
"As soon as I saw their beaks I knew.
That's what they are," said Pooh, said he.
"That's what they are," said Pooh.

"Let's frighten the dragons," I said to Pooh.
"That's right," said Pooh to Me.
"I'm not afraid," I said to Pooh,
And I held his paw and I shouted "Shoo!
Silly old dragons!"- and off they flew.

"I wasn't afraid," said Pooh, said he,
"I'm never afraid with you." 

So wherever I am, there's always Pooh,
There's always Pooh and Me.
"What would I do?" I said to Pooh,
"If it wasn't for you," and Pooh said: "True,
It isn't much fun for One, but Two,
Can stick together, says Pooh, says he. "That's how it is," says Pooh.

Us Two - A A Milne

If all the world and love were young, 
And truth in every Shepherd’s tongue, 
These pretty pleasures might me move, 
To live with thee, and be thy love. 

Time drives the flocks from field to fold, 
When Rivers rage and Rocks grow cold, 
And Philomel becometh dumb, 
The rest complains of cares to come. 

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields, 
To wayward winter reckoning yields, 
A honey tongue, a heart of gall, 
Is fancy’s spring, but sorrow’s fall. 

Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of Roses, 
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies 
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten: 
In folly ripe, in reason rotten. 

Thy belt of straw and Ivy buds, 
The Coral clasps and amber studs, 
All these in me no means can move 
To come to thee and be thy love. 

But could youth last, and love still breed, 
Had joys no date, nor age no need, 
Then these delights my mind might move 
To live with thee, and be thy love.

The Nymph's Reply To The Shepherd - Sir W Raleigh

A poem a day keeps the therapist away. Daily meditations on the force of life, momentous or minute.

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