The Oriole sings in the greening grove
As if he were half-way waiting,
The rosebuds peep from their hoods of green,
Timid, and hesitating.
The rain comes down in a torrent sweep
And the nights smell warm and pinety,
The garden thrives, but the tender shoots
Are yellow-green and tiny.
Then a flash of sun on a waiting hill,
Streams laugh that erst were quiet,
The sky smiles down with a dazzling blue
And the woods run mad with riot.

— Paul Lawrence Dunbar, Summer in the South

Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

‘Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!’

He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought —
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood a while in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!

One two! One two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

‘And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
Oh frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!’
He chortled in his joy.

‘Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

— Lewis Carroll, Jabberwocky

Who at Thermopyae stood side by side,

And fought together and together died,

Under earth-barrows now are laid in rest,

Their chance thrice-glorious, and their fate thrice-blest:

No tears for them, but memory’s loving gaze;

For them no pity, but proud hymns of praise.

Time shall not sweep this monument away,—

Time the destroyer; no, nor dank decay.

This not alone heroic ashes holds;

Greece’s own glory this earth-shrine enfolds,—

Leonidas, the Spartan king; a name

Of boundless honor and eternal fame.

— Simonides, Thermopylae

Winken, Blinken, and Nod one night
Sailed off in a wooden shoe,
Sailed off on a river of crystal light,
Into a sea of dew.

“Where are you going, and what do you wish?”
The old moon asked the three.
“We have come to fish for the herring fish
That live in the beautiful sea;
Nets of silver and gold have we!”
Said Winken,
Blinken,
And Nod.

The old moon laughed and sang a song,
As they rocked in the wooden shoe,
And the wind that sped them all night long,
Ruffled the waves of dew.
The little stars were the herring fish
That lived in the beautiful sea.
“Now cast your nets wherever you wish—
Never afeard are we”;
So cried the stars to the fisherman three:
Winken,
Blinken,
And Nod.

All night long their nets they threw
To the stars in the twinkling foam—
Then down from the skies came a wooden shoe
Bringing the fishermen home;
T’was all so pretty a sail it seemed
As if it could not be,
And some folks thought t’was a dream they’d dreamed
Of sailing that beautiful sea—
But I shall name you the fisherman three:
Winken,
Blinken,
And Nod.

Winken and Blinken are two little eyes,
And Nod is a little head,
And the wooden shoes that sailed the skies
Is the wee one’s trundle-bed.
So shut your eyes while your mother sings
Of wonderful sights that be,
And you shall see the beautiful things
As you rock in the misty sea,
Where the old shoe rocked the fisherman three:
Winken,
Blinken,
And Nod.

— Mother Goose, Winken, Blinken, and Nod

Green groweth the holly, so doth the ivy.
Though winter blasts blow never so high,
Green groweth the holly.

As the holly groweth green
And never changeth hue,
So I am, and ever hath been,
Unto my lady true.
Green groweth  .  .  .  etc.

As the holly groweth green,
With ivy all alone,
When flowerys cannot be seen
And green-wood leaves be gone,
ut supra

Now unto my lady
Promise to her I make:
From all other only
To her I me betake.
ut supra

Adieu, mine own lady,
Adieu, my specïal,
Who hath my heart truly,
Be sure, and ever shall.

Green groweth the holly, so doth the ivy.
Though winter blasts blow never so high,
Green groweth the holly. 

— King Henry VIII, Green Groweth the Holly

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on that sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

— Dylan Thomas, Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night