by Mark Twain
Warm summer sun,
Shine kindly here,
Warm southern wind,
Blow softly here.
Green sod above,
Lie light, lie light.
Good night, dear heart,
Good night, good night.
Thanatopsis
To him who in the love of Nature holds
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
A various language; for his gayer hours
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile
And eloquence of beauty, and she glides
Into his darker musings, with a mild
And healing sympathy, that steals away
Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight
Over thy spirit, and sad images
Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,
And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,
Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart;—
Go forth, under the open sky, and list
To Nature’s teachings, while from all around—
Earth and her waters, and the depths of air—
Comes a still voice—
Yet a few days, and thee
The all-beholding sun shall see no more
In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,
Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears,
Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist
Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again,
And, lost each human trace, surrendering up
Thine individual being, shalt thou go
To mix for ever with the elements,
To be a brother to the insensible rock
And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain
Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak
Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould.
Yet not to thine eternal resting-place
Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down
With patriarchs of the infant world—with kings,
The powerful of the earth—the wise, the good,
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,
All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills
Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun,—the vales
Stretching in pensive quietness between;
The venerable woods—rivers that move
In majesty, and the complaining brooks
That make the meadows green; and, poured round all,
Old Ocean’s gray and melancholy waste,—
Are but the solemn decorations all
Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun,
The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,
Are shining on the sad abodes of death,
Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread
The globe are but a handful to the tribes
That slumber in its bosom.—Take the wings
Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness,
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound,
Save his own dashings—yet the dead are there:
And millions in those solitudes, since first
The flight of years began, have laid them down
In their last sleep—the dead reign there alone.
So shalt thou rest, and what if thou withdraw
In silence from the living, and no friend
Take note of thy departure? All that breathe
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care
Plod on, and each one as before will chase
His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave
Their mirth and their employments, and shall come
And make their bed with thee. As the long train
Of ages glide away, the sons of men,
The youth in life’s green spring, and he who goes
In the full strength of years, matron and maid,
The speechless babe, and the gray-headed man—
Shall one by one be gathered to thy side,
By those, who in their turn shall follow them.
So live, that when thy summons comes to join
The innumerable caravan, which moves
To that mysterious realm, where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,
Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave,
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.
Work
by Eliza Cook
Work, work, my boy, be not afraid;
Look labor boldly in the face;
Take up the hammer or the spade,
And blush not for your humble place.
There’s glory in the shuttle’s song;
There’s triumph in the anvil’s stroke;
There’s merit in the brave and strong
Who dig the mine or fell the oak.
The wind disturbs the sleeping lake,
And bids it ripple pure and fresh;
It moves the green boughs till they make
Grand music in their leafy mesh.
And so the active breath of life
Should stir our dull and sluggard wills;
For are we not created rife
With health, that stagnant torpor kills?
I doubt if he who lolls his head
Where idleness and plenty meet,
Enjoys his pillow or his bread
As those who earn the meals they eat.
And man is never half so blest
As when the busy day is spent
So as to make his evening rest
A holiday of glad content.
Birds In Summer
by Mary Howitt
How pleasant the life of a bird must be,
Flitting about in each leafy tree:
In the leafy trees so broad and tall,
Like a green and beautiful palace-hall
With its airy chambers light and boon,
That open to sun, and stars, and moon!
That open unto the bright blue sky.
And the frolicsome winds as they wander by.
They have left their nests in the forest bough;
Those homes of delight they need not now;
And the young and the old they wander out
And traverse their green world round about;
And hark! at the top of this leafy hall,
How one to the other they lovingly call:
“Come up, come up!” they seem to say,
“Where the topmost twigs in the breezes sway!”
“Come up, come up, for the world is fair
Where the merry leaves dance in the summer air,”
And the birds below give back the cry:
“We come, we come, to the branches high!”
How pleasant the life of a bird must be
Flitting about in a leafy tree;
And away through the air what joy to go,
And to look on the bright green earth below.
How pleasant the life of a bird must be,
Wherever it listeth there to flee;
To go, when a joyful fancy calls,
Dashing adown ‘mong the waterfalls,
Then wheeling about with its mates at play,
Above and below, and among the spray,
Hither and thither, with screams as wild
As the laughing mirth of a rosy child!
How pleasant the life of a bird must be,
Skimming about on the breezy sea,
Cresting the billows like silvery foam,
And then wheeling away to its cliff-built home
What joy it must be to sail, upborne
By a strong free wing, through the rosy morn,
To meet the young sun face to face,
And pierce like a shaft the boundless space!
What joy it must be, like a living breeze,
To flutter about ‘mong the flowering trees;
Lightly to soar and to see beneath
The wastes of the blossoming purple heath,
And the yellow furze like fields of gold
That gladden some fairy regions old!
On mountain tops, on the billowy sea,
On the leafy stems of the forest tree,
How pleasant the life of a bird must be!
The Voice Of Spring
by Mary Howitt
I am coming, little maiden!
With the pleasant sunshine laden,
With the honey for the bee,
With the blossom for the tree,
With the flower and with the leaf:—
Till I come, the time is brief.
I am coming, I am coming!
Hark! the little bee is humming;
See! the lark is soaring
high In the bright and sunny sky;
And the gnats(4) are on the wing.
Wheeling round in airy ring.
See! the yellow catkins cover
All the slender willows over;
And on banks of mossy green
Star-like primroses are seen;
And, their clustering leaves below
White and purple violets blow.
Hark! the new-born lambs are bleating;
And the cawing rooks are meeting
In the elms—a noisy crowd!
All the birds are singing loud;
And the first white butterfly
In the sunshine dances by.
Look around thee—look around!
Flowers in all the fields abound;
Every running stream is bright;
All the orchard(8) trees are white,
And each small and waving shoot
Promises sweet flowers and fruit.
Turn thine eyes to earth and heaven!
God for thee the Spring has given;
Taught the birds their melodies,
Clothed the earth, and cleared the skies,
For thy pleasure or thy food:—
Pour thy soul in gratitude?
Great, Wide, Beautiful, Wonderful World
Great, wide, beautiful, wonderful World,
With the wonderful water round you curled,
And the wonderful grass upon your breast–
World, you are beautifully drest.
The wonderful air is over me,
And the wonderful wind is shaking the tree,
It walks on the water, and whirls the mills,
And talks to itself on the tops of the hills.
You friendly Earth! how far do you go,
With the wheat-fields that nod and the rivers that flow,
With cities and gardens, and cliffs, and isles,
And people upon you for thousands of miles?
Ah, you are so great, and I am so small,
I tremble to think of you, World, at all;
And yet, when I said my prayers to-day,
A whisper inside me seemed to say,
“You are more than the Earth, though you are such a dot:
You can love and think, and the Earth cannot!”
Facts For Little Folks
Tea is prepared from the leaf of a tree;
Honey is gathered and made by the bee.
Butter is made from the milk of the cow;
Pork is the flesh of the pig or the sow.
The juice of the apple makes cider so fine;
The juice of the grape makes red and white wine.
Cork is the bark of a very large tree;
Sponge grows like a plant in the deep deep sea.
Oil is obtained from fish and from flax;
Candles are made of tallow and wax.
Linen is made from the fibres of flax;
Paper is made from straw and from rags.
Worsted is made from wool soft and warm;
Silk is prepared and spun by a worm.
Mother to Son
Well, son, I’ll tell you:
Life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.
It’s had tacks in it,
And splinters,
And boards torn up,
And places with no carpet on the floor—
Bare.
But all the time
I’se been a-climbin’ on,
And reachin’ landin’s,
And turnin’ corners,
And sometimes goin’ in the dark
Where there ain’t been no light.
So boy, don’t you turn back.
Don’t you set down on the steps
’Cause you finds it’s kinder hard.
Don’t you fall now—
For I’se still goin’, honey,
I’se still climbin’,
And life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.
Mix a Pancake
Mix a pancake,
Stir a pancake,
Pop it in the pan;
Fry the pancake,
Toss the pancake—
Catch it if you can.
My English Words List - May - 2022
tryout
noun
Open tryouts for the team are next Monday.
hoist
verb
Cargo was hoisted up into the ship.
let it hoist to the upper deck
noun
gave him a hoist over the wall
aka
abbreviation of also known as
synchronous
adjective
Libin defines meetings as synchronous discussions with more than three people
asynchronous
adjective
Asynchronous programming is a technique that enables your program to start a potentially long-running task, and then rather than having to wait until that task has finished, to be able to continue to be responsive to other events while the task runs. Once the task is completed, your program is presented with the result.
chirp
verb
The birds were chirping in the trees.
poke
verb
poked her head out of the window
carousel
noun
He loves to ride on the carousel at the park.
the luggage carousel at the airport
torque
noun
an automobile engine delivers torque to the drive shaft
hepatitis
noun
7 cases of severe acute hepatitis reported at Toronto children’s hospital
browser
noun
thaw
verb
The sun will soon thaw the snow and ice.
noun
flooding from the spring thaw
propane
noun
ad hoc
adjective
ad hoc solutions
We had to make some ad hoc changes to the plans.
slate
noun
started with a clean slate
Some school blackboards are made of slate.
The house has a slate roof.
She viewed her students as blank slates, just waiting to be filled with knowledge.
She wishes she could wipe the slate clean and start over in a different career.
jay
noun
scratch
verb
scratch out a living
The dog scratched its ear.
Careful, the cat will scratch.
noun
build a school system from scratch
bake a cake from scratch
controversial
adjective
Abortion is a highly controversial subject.
a decision that remains controversial
a controversial law
kinda
pronunciation spelling
- used for “kind of” in informal speech and in representations of such speech
I feel kinda [=somewhat] tired.
She’s spontaneous, a bundle of fun and kinda wild.
JavaScript is kinda magic
wrap
verb
a reporter wrapped up the mayor’s speech in a few sentences
shot put
javelin
noun
stray
adjective
a stray dog
currant
noun
