Beautiful Snow by James W. Watson

Oh! The snow, the beautiful snow,
Filling the sky and the earth below;
Over the house tops, over the street,
Over the heads of the poeple you meet;
     Dancing,
          Flirting,
               Skimming along,
Beautiful snow! It can do nothing wrong,
Flying to kiss a fair lady's cheek,
Clinging to lips in a frolicsome freak;
Beautiful snow, from the heavens above,
Pure as an angel and fickle as love!

Oh! The snow, the beautiful snow!
How the flakes gather and laugh as they go!
Whirling about in its maddening fun,
It plays in its glee with everyone.
     Chasing,
         Laughing,
              Hurrying by,
It lights up the face and it sparkles the eye;
And even the dogs, with a bark and a bound,
Snap at the crystals that eddy around.
The town is alive, and its heart in a glow,
To welcome the coming of beautiful snow.

How the wild crowd go swaying along,
Hailing each other with humor and song!
How the gay sledges like meteors flash by-
Bright for a moment, then lost to the eye!
    Ringing,
        Swinging,
             Dashing they go
Over the crest of the beautiful snow;
Snow so pure when it falls from the sky,
Oh! the snow, the beautiful snow!



I thought this would be a good poem for christmas. Especially since I don't have snow.

The Raven by Edgar Allen Poe

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,-
While nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door;
                               Only this and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow,- sorrow for the lost Lenore,-
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore,-
                                 Nameless here forevermore.

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me,- filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating heart, I stood repeating,
" 'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door,-
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;
                                That it is, and nothing more."

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or madame, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is, I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you."-Here I opened wide the door;
                             Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word "Lenore!"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word "Lenore!"
                              Merely this, and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping, something louder than before;
"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window-lattice;
Let me see then what thereat it, and this mystery explore,-
Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore;-
                              'Tis the wind, and nothing more,"

Open then I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not an instant stopped or stayed he;
But, with mein of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door,-
Perched upon a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door,-
                           Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "Art sure no craven;
Ghastly, grim, and ancient raven, wandering from the nightly shore,
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the night's Plutonian shore?"
                              Quoth the raven, "Nevermore!"

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning, little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
EVer yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door,
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
                               With such name as "Nevermore!"

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered,- not a feather then he fluttered,-
Till I scarecly more than muttered, "Other friends have flown before,-
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."
                               Then the bird said, "Nevermore!"

Startled at the stillness, broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster, till his song one burden bore,
TIll the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore,-
                                 Of 'Nevermore,-nevermore' "

But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in fornt of bird and bust and door,
There, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy thinking what this ominous bird of yore-
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore-
                               Meant in croaking "Nevermore!"

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat driving, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushon's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining, with the lamplight gloating o're
                                  She shall press-ah! nevermore!

Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer,
Swung by seraphim, whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretched," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee,- by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite,- respite and nepenthe from the memories of Lenore!
Quaff, O, quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!"
                                 Quoth the raven, "Nevermore!"

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!-prophet still, if bird or devil!
Whether tempter sent, or whether temptest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted,-
On this home by horror haunted,-tell me truly, I implore,-
Is there-is there balm in Gilead?-tell me,-tell me, I implore!"
                               Quoth the raven, "Nevermore!"

"Prophet!" said I, "Thing of evil!-prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that heaven that bends above us,-by that God we both adore,
Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden, whom the angel name Lenore,
Clasp a fair and radiant maiden, whom the angels name Lenore!"
                              Quoth the raven, "Nevermore!"

"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shreiked, upstarting,-
"Get thee back into the tempest and the night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!-quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
                                 Quoth the raven, "Nevermore!"

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
                                  Shall be lifted-nevermore!




    I thought I would choose a classic this time.

Hell in Texas by Unknown author

The Devil, we're told, in hell was chained,
And a thousand years he there remained,
And he never complained, nor did he groan,
But determined to start a hell of his own,
Where he could torment the souls of men
Without being chained to a prison pen.

So he asked the Lord if He had on hand
Anything left when He made the land.
The Lord said, "Yes, I had plenty on hand,
But I left it down on the Rio Grande.
The fast is, old boy, the stuff is so poor,
I don't think you could use it in hell anymore."

But the devil went down to look at the truck,
And said if it came as a gift, he was stuck;
For after examining it careful and well
He concluded the place was too dry for hell.
So in order to get it off His hands
God promised the devil to water the lands.

For he has some water, or rather some dregs,
A regular cathartic that smelt like bad eggs.
Hence the deal was closed and the deed was given,
And the Lord went back to His high place in Heaven.
And the devil said, "I have all that is needed
To make a good hell," And thus he succeeded.

He began to put thorns on all the trees,
And he mixed the sand with millions of fleas,
He scattered tarantulas along the roads,
Put thorns on the cacti and horns on the toads;
He lenthened the horns of the Texas steers
And put an addition on jack Rabbits' ears.

He put little devils in the broncho steed
And poisoned the feet of the centipede.
The rattlesnake bites you, the scorpion stings,
The mosquito delights you by buzzing his wings.
The sand burrs prevail, so do the ants,
And those that sit down need half soles on their pants.

The devil then said that throughout the land
He's manage to keep up the devil's own brand,
And all would be mavericks unless they bore
The marks of scratches and bites by the score.
The heat in the summer is a hundred and ten,
Too hot for the devil and too hot for men.

The wild boar roams through the black chaparral,
It's a hell of a place he has for hell;
The red pepper grows by the bank of the brook,
The Mexicans use it in all they cook.
Just dine with a Greaser and then you will shout,
"I've a hell on the inside as well as the out."


I found this poem in a book called 'The Best Loved Peoms of the American People Selected by Hazel Felleman.'