My first (and undoubtedly classy) poem was written when I was about ten and impatient like most ten-year-olds:
Tomorrow
Tomorrow we go to the cottage
Tomorrow we go travelling
Why can't anything ever happen
This very day?
(My poetic skills have not improved much since, in case anyone wondered.)
Only recently I realised I had unwittingly ripped of The Great Bard:
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time
Only unlike him, I still had hope. At that age.
2 comments:
and all our yesterdays hath lighted fools, the way to dusty death
What would we be without the Bard? :)
Walking shadows and poor players, no doubt!
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