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My Bank Account - Stephen Leacock

My Bank Account Stephen Leacock my bank account  When I go into a bank I get nervous. The clerks make me nervous; the little windows at the counters make me nervous the sight of the money makes me nervous; everything makes me nervous. The moment I go through the door of a bank and attempt to do business there, I become an irresponsible fool. I attempt to do business there, I become an irresponsible fool. I knew this before I went in, but my salary had been raised to fifty six dollars a month and I felt that the bank was the only place. For it. So I walked in with dragging feet and looked shyly round at the clerks. I had an idea that a person about to open an account was obliged to consult the manager. I went up to a counter marked ‘Accountant’. The Accountant was a tall, cool fellow. The very sight of him made me nervous. My voice was deep and hollow . can I see the manager? I said, and added solemnly alone. I don’t know why I said ‘alone’. certainly, siad the accountant, and fetched h
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Light the Lamp of Thy Love - Rabindranath Tagore

    Light the Lamp of Thy Love In my house, with thine own hands, Light the lamp of Thy Love! Thy Transmuting Lamp entrancing, Wondrous are its rays. Change my darkness to Thy light, Lord! Change my Darkness to Thy light, And my evil into good Touch me but once and I will change, All my clay into thy gold All the sense lamps that I did light Sooted into worries Sitting at the door of my soul Light Thy resurrecting lamp!   Word Meaning Transmuting - बदलना   Entrancing - मनोहर Wondrous - चमत्‍कारी Darkness – अंधकार , अज्ञानता Evil – अशुभ , बुरा Sooted – काजल Sense lamps – 5 इंद्रिया Worries – चिंता , दुख Resurrecting- पुर्नजीवित होना  
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Tree by Tina Morris

Tree They did not tell us What it would be like without trees. Nobody imagined that the whispering of leaves Would grow silent Or the vibrant jade of spring Pale to grey Death. And now we pile Rubbish on rubbish But though the shape is right And the nailed branches Lean upon the wind and plastic leaves lend colour to the twigs. We wait in vain for the slow unfurling of buds. And no amount of loving can stir our weary tree to singing.                               - Tina Morris
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