Occasionally on Fridays we'll have The Friday Poem. (A capitalized title--and italicized!--so you know it's official and whatnot.) Famous poets, obscure poets, amateur poets, whatever poets--just a poem to end the week.
Like this one:
Only in Sleep, by Sara Teasdale
Only in sleep I see their faces,
Children I played with when I was a child,
Louise comes back with her brown hair braided,
Annie with ringlets warm and wild.
Only in sleep Time is forgotten --
What may have come to them, who can know?
Yet we played last night as long ago,
And the doll-house stood at the turn of the stair.
The years had not sharpened their smooth round faces,
I met their eyes and found them mild --
Do they, too, dream of me, I wonder,
And for them am I too a child?
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