This is one of my favorite poems. Shel Silverstein and AA Milne are on the shelf beside the Milton and Burns, which I've been told means that I never really grew up. Problems with my poetic pituitary gland, I guess.
For no reason whatsoever.
"Oh, the butterflies are flying,
Now the winter days are dying.
And the primroses are trying
To be seen.
And the turtle-doves are cooing,
And the woods are up and doing,
For the violets are blue-ing
In the green.
Oh, the honey-bees are gumming
On their little wings, and humming
That the summer, which is coming
Will be fun.
And the cows are almost cooing,
And the turtle doves are mooing,
Which is why a Pooh is poohing
In the sun.
For the spring is really springing;
You can see a skylark singing,
And the blue-bells, which are ringing,
Can be heard.
And the cuckoo isn't cooing,
But he's cucking and he's ooing,
And a Pooh is simply poohing
Like a bird."
From "House at Pooh Corner"
by AA Milne
This is one of my favorite poems. Shel Silverstein and AA Milne are on the shelf beside the Milton and Burns, which I've been told means that I never really grew up. Problems with my poetic pituitary gland, I guess.
For no reason whatsoever.
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Pages to Type is a blog about books, writing and literary culture (with the occasional digression into coffee and the care and feeding of giant robots).