This is difficult to translate so I’m going to post it in it’s original language (German).

Ein Ferd das hat vier Beiner

Auf jeder Seite einer

Dann hat es einmal keiner

Umfallt

- Unknown

The View from Halfway Down by Alison Tafel?

The weak breeze whispers nothing. The water screams sublime. His feet shift, teeter-totter; Deep breath, stand back - it’s time.

Toes untouch the overpass, Soon he’s water bound. Eyes lock shut, but peek to see The view from halfway down.

A little wind, a summer sun, A river rich and regal. A flood of fond endorphins Brings a calm that knows no equal.

You’re flying now; you see things Much more clear than from the ground. It’s all okay – it would be, Were you not now halfway down.

Thrash to break from gravity; What now could slow the drop? All I’d give for toes to touch The safety back at top.

But this is it. The deed is done. Silence drowns the sound. Before I leaped, I should have seen The view from halfway down.

I really should have thought about The view from halfway down.

I wish I could have known about The view from halfway down.

He Asked Me How Will We Know When We’re Dead, by Bobby Byrd. (not the Bobby Byrd.)

I can’t find it anywhere to share, though, as it’s from an album he did with Jim Ward that has become so obscure that it seemingly cannot be found in written or audio form anywhere on the internet, you can still find the CD for sale here and there, though. Cryin’ shame, that whole album is solid.

Sea Fever by John Mansfield

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,

And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by;

And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,

And a grey mist on the sea’s face, and a grey dawn breaking.

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide

Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;

And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,

And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,

To the gull’s way and the whale’s way where the wind’s like a whetted knife;

And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,

And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.

First they came https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/First_They_Came

First they came for the Communists
And I did not speak out
Because I was not a Communist

Then they came for the Socialists
And I did not speak out
Because I was not a Socialist

Then they came for the trade unionists
And I did not speak out
Because I was not a trade unionist

Then they came for the Jews
And I did not speak out
Because I was not a Jew

Then they came for me
And there was no one left
To speak out for me

Sorry if this was already posted, but I didn’t see it:

There Will Come Soft Rains by Sara Teasdale

There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground, And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;

And frogs in the pools singing at night, And wild plum trees in tremulous white,

Robins will wear their feathery fire Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;

And not one will know of the war, not one Will care at last when it is done.

Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree If mankind perished utterly;

And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn, Would scarcely know that we were gone.

There’s also a short story by Ray Bradbury with the same title that quotes the poem.

The Hunting of the Snark by Lewis Carroll.

"Come, listen, my men, as I tell you again,

The five unmistakeable marks,

By which you may know, wheresoever you go,

The warranted, genuine, snarks."

Oh pointy birds

Oh pointy pointy

Anoint my head

Anointy nointy

-Steve Martin

This may come off as really pretentious, but when I’m feel a wistful melancholy for the past, I hear this short poem I wrote a few years ago called Still Here:

I thought this feeling cast away

Though here it is, perhaps to stay

Though years have passed and I have cried

My inward plea is still denied

The Clock Man by Shel Silverstein

“How much will you pay for an extra day?” The clock man asked the child.

“Not one penny,” the answer came.

“For my days are as many as my smiles.”

“How much will you pay for an extra day?” He asked when the child was grown.

“Maybe a dollar or maybe less, for I’ve plenty of days of my own.”

“How much will you pay for an extra day?” He asked when the time came to die.

“All of the pearls in all of the seas, and all of the stars in the sky.”

The World Is Too Much With Us by wordsworth. As time goes by and gets more relevant.

A poem my brother wrote

Nothing changes, and it changes all at once. Nothing moves, nothing exists. Nothing is important, so we should learn nothing, we should study nothing, get close to nothing, be kind to nothing. We must come to understand nothing so well that we could maybe even see nothing in ourselves. Because nothing matters, nothing is important, and I think that’s something.

Storm by Tim Minchin: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HhGuXCuDb1U

Nothing Is Too Small Not to Be Wondered About by Mary Oliver

The cricket doesn’t wonder
if there’s a heaven
or, if there is, if there’s room for him.

It’s fall. Romance is over. Still, he sings.
If he can, he enters a house
through the tiniest crack under the door.
Then the house grows colder.

He sings slower and slower.
Then, nothing.

This must mean something, I don’t know what.
But certainly it doesn’t mean
he hasn’t been an excellent cricket
all his life.

Poor moth, I can’t help you,
I can only turn out the light.