Much beautiful poetry has been written about the seemingly little things in life. Here is a small collection about small things.
Ode on the Death of a favourite Cat, Drowned in a Tub of Gold Fishes
'twas on a lofty vase's side,
Where China's gayest art had dy'd
The azure flowers, that blow;
Demurest of the tabby kind,
The pensive Selima reclin'd
Gazed on the lake below.
Her concious tail her joy declar'd;
The velvet of her paws,
Her coat, that with the tortoise vies,
Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes,
She saw; and purr'd applause.
Still had she gaz'd; but 'midst the tide
Two angel forms were seen to glide,
The Genii of the stream:
Their scaly armour's Tyrian hue
Thro' richest purple to the view
Betray'd a golden gleam.
The hapless Nymph with wonder saw:
A whisker first and then a claw,
With many an ardent wish,
She stretch'd in vain to reach the prize.
What female heart can gold despise?
What Cat's averse to fish?
By Thomas Gray (1716 - 1771)
Upon Julias Clothes
When as in silks my Julia goes, Next, when I cast mine eyes and see By Robert Herrick (1591 - 1674)
Then, then (me thinks) how sweetly flowes
That liquefaction of her clothes.
That brave Vibration each way free;
O how that glittering taketh me!
When as in silks my Julia goes,
Next, when I cast mine eyes and see
By Robert Herrick (1591 - 1674)
Upon a Spider Catching a Fly
Thou sorrow, venom Elfe: I saw a pettish wasp But as afraid, remote Thus gently him didst treate
Is this thy play,
To spin a web out of thyself and catch a fly?
Fall foule therein:
Whom yet thy whorle pins did not hasp
Lest he should fling
Didst stand hereat,
And with thy little fingers stroke
And gently tap
Lest he should pet,
And in a froppish, apish heate
Should gently fret
Thou sorrow, venom Elfe:
I saw a pettish wasp
But as afraid, remote
Thus gently him didst treate
Whereas the silly Fly,
Caught by its leg,
Thou by the throat took'st hastily,
And 'hinde the head
This goes to pot, that not
Nature doth call.
Strive not above what strength hath got,
Lest in the brawle
This Frey seems thus to us:
Hells Spider gets
His intrails spun to whip Cords thus,
And wove to nets,
To tangle Adams race
To their Destructions, Spoil'd made base
By venom things,
But mighty, Gracious Lord,
Thy Grace to breake the cord; afford
Us Glorys Gate
We'l Nightingale sing like,
When pearcht on high
In Glories Cage, thy glory, bright:
By Edward Taylor (1644 - 1729)