There’s something about the metering in this poem that I really, really love. Enjoy this Edgar Allan Poe poem.
‘Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe: All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe.
Some say the world will end in fire; Some say in ice.
Hope is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul,
You might have noticed that every Sunday I share a poem here on Working Writers.
When I see birches bend to left and right Across the lines of straighter darker trees, I like to think some boy’s been swinging them.
This poem is from my book, A New Dish, my second book of poetry.
A narrow fellow in the grass Occasionally rides; You may have met him, did you not, His notice sudden is.
A light exists in spring Not present on the year At any other period.
Blow, blow, thou winter wind, Thou art not so unkind