It's been a tough week...

so here's some William Carlos Williams.

The Red Wheelbarrow.

so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens.

This Is Just To Say.

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold


Bugger, and I can't resist the introduction to Under Milkwood. Goes like this...

(Silence)

FIRST VOICE (Very softly)
To begin at the beginning:
It is spring, moonless night in the small town, starless
and bible black, the cobblestreets silent and the
hunched, courters'-and-rabbits' wood limping
invisible down to the sloeblack, slow, black, crowblack,
fishingboat-bobbing sea. The houses are blind as
moles (though moles see fine to-night in the snouting,
velvet dingles) or blind as Captain Cat there in
the muffled middle by the pump and the town clock,
the shops in mourning, the Welfare Hall in widows'
weeds. And all the people of the lulled and
dumbfound town are sleeping now.