A gray rock hops
across the road.
It stops
and looks surprised.

It blinks two
little polka dots
that look a lot
like eyes,

But I can spot
this camouflaged
amphibian’s
disguise.

I know his tricks;
when I come near
he’ll hop away
and disappear,

and make me search
for him in clumps
of scratchy grass,
then leave me stumped!

And after that
I’ll look for eyes
all day
along the road,
inspecting any rock with dots
to see if it’s that toad!

In spring when maple buds are red,
We turn the clock an hour ahead;
Which means, each April that arrives,
We lose an hour
Out of our lives

Who cares?
When autumn birds in flocks
Fly southward, back we turn the clocks,
And so regain a lovely thing—
That missing hour
We lost last spring.

Phyllis McGinley

Little yellow flower
does it tickle,
do you itch
when a buttefly is
straddling your petals
as it sips?

Do you wish you could scratch
or give a little twitch?

When that quick-draw straw
plunges nearly to your stem
does it sting like the jab
of a needle or a pin?

Would you scream, “Bug, off!”
If not that
What, then?

Hurt no living thing;
Ladybird, nor butterfly,
Nor moth with dusty wing.
Nor cricket chirping cheerily,
Nor grasshopper so light of leap,
Nor dancing gnat, nor beetle fat,
Nor harmless worms that creep.

Christina Rossetti

Personally,
I think it’s silly
To always gather
Daffodillies.

What’s wrong with
Poison Ivy?
We’ve barely scratched
The surface there.

Though once you’ve gathered
Poison ivy,
You’ll be scratching everywhere.

Louis Phillips

Oh, the Polliwog is woggling
In his pleasant native bog
With his beady eyes a-goggling
Through the underwater fog
And his busy tail a-joggling
And his eager head agog—
Just a happy little frogling
Who is bound to be a Frog!

Arthur Guiterman

I come to work as well as play;
I’ll tell you what I do;
I whistle all the live-long day,
“Woo-oo-oo! Woo-oo!

I toss the branches up and down
And shake them to and fro,
I whirl the leaves in flocks of brown,
And send them high and low.

I strew the twigs upon the ground,
The frozen earth I sweep;
I blow the children round and round
And wake the flowers from sleep.

Anonymous

The vulture eats between his meals
And that’s the reason why
He very, very, rarely feels
as well as you and I.

His eye is dull, his head is bald,
His neck is growing thinner.
Oh! What a lesson for us all
To only eat at dinner!

Hilaire Belloc