With a mournful moan and silken tone,
Itself alone comes ONE TROMBONE.
Gliding, sliding, high notes go low;
ONE trombón, trombone is playing SOLO.
Next, a TRUMPET comes along,
And sings and stings its swinging song.
It joins TROMBONE, no más alone,
And ONE and TWO-O, they’re a DUO.
Fine FRENCH HORN, its valves all oiled,
Bright and brassy, loops all coiled,
Golden yellow; joins its fellows.
TWO, now THREE-O, what a TRIO!
Now, a mellow friend, the CELLO,
Neck extended, bows a “hello”;
End pin set upon the floor,
It makes up a QUARTET—that’s FOUR.
And soaring high and moving in,
With ZIN! ZIN! ZIN! a VIOLIN,
Stroking strings that come alive;
Now QUINTET. Let’s count them: FIVE.
FLUTE, that sends our soul a-shiver;
FLUTE, that slender, silver sliver.
A place among the set it picks
To make a young SEXTET—that’s SIX.
With steely keys that softly click,
Its breezy notes so darkly slick,
A sleek, black, woody CLARINET
Is number SEVEN—now SEPTET.
Gleeful, bleating, sobbing, pleading,
Through its throbbing double-reeding;
OBOE, please don’t hesitate:
Come, make it an OCTET—that’s EIGHT.
That lazy clown, the big BASSOON!
He plays low down, we’re laughing soon.
Here, Grumpy, get your place in line,
And give us a NONET—that’s NINE.
The HARP descends with angel’s wings,
A heaven’s blend through magic strings,
And when it joins the others, then
Behold! A CHAMBER GROUP of TEN.
The ORCHESTRA comes in the hall,
They’re on the stage; we see them all:
The CELLO, HARP, and CLARINET,
The TRUMPET, whom we’ve also met,
The OBOE, FLUTE, and big BASSOON,
All eager to get started soon.
TROMBONE, FRENCH HORN, and VIOLIN,
All poised and ready. Now, begin!
The STRINGS all soar, the REEDS implore,
The BRASSES roar with notes galore.
It’s música that we all adore.
It’s what we go to concerts for.
The minutos fly, the música ends,
And so, good-bye to our new friends.
But when they’ve bowed and left the floor,
If we clap loud and shout, “Encore!”
They may come out and play once more.
And that would give us great delight
Before we say a late good night.
Itself alone comes ONE TROMBONE.
Gliding, sliding, high notes go low;
ONE trombón, trombone is playing SOLO.
Next, a TRUMPET comes along,
And sings and stings its swinging song.
It joins TROMBONE, no más alone,
And ONE and TWO-O, they’re a DUO.
Fine FRENCH HORN, its valves all oiled,
Bright and brassy, loops all coiled,
Golden yellow; joins its fellows.
TWO, now THREE-O, what a TRIO!
Now, a mellow friend, the CELLO,
Neck extended, bows a “hello”;
End pin set upon the floor,
It makes up a QUARTET—that’s FOUR.
And soaring high and moving in,
With ZIN! ZIN! ZIN! a VIOLIN,
Stroking strings that come alive;
Now QUINTET. Let’s count them: FIVE.
FLUTE, that sends our soul a-shiver;
FLUTE, that slender, silver sliver.
A place among the set it picks
To make a young SEXTET—that’s SIX.
With steely keys that softly click,
Its breezy notes so darkly slick,
A sleek, black, woody CLARINET
Is number SEVEN—now SEPTET.
Gleeful, bleating, sobbing, pleading,
Through its throbbing double-reeding;
OBOE, please don’t hesitate:
Come, make it an OCTET—that’s EIGHT.
That lazy clown, the big BASSOON!
He plays low down, we’re laughing soon.
Here, Grumpy, get your place in line,
And give us a NONET—that’s NINE.
The HARP descends with angel’s wings,
A heaven’s blend through magic strings,
And when it joins the others, then
Behold! A CHAMBER GROUP of TEN.
The ORCHESTRA comes in the hall,
They’re on the stage; we see them all:
The CELLO, HARP, and CLARINET,
The TRUMPET, whom we’ve also met,
The OBOE, FLUTE, and big BASSOON,
All eager to get started soon.
TROMBONE, FRENCH HORN, and VIOLIN,
All poised and ready. Now, begin!
The STRINGS all soar, the REEDS implore,
The BRASSES roar with notes galore.
It’s música that we all adore.
It’s what we go to concerts for.
The minutos fly, the música ends,
And so, good-bye to our new friends.
But when they’ve bowed and left the floor,
If we clap loud and shout, “Encore!”
They may come out and play once more.
And that would give us great delight
Before we say a late good night.
por Ogden Nash
Winter is the king of showmen,
Turning árbol stumps into snow men
And houses into birthday cakes
And spreading sugar over the lakes.
Smooth and clean and frost white
The world looks good enough to bite.
That’s the season to be young,
Catching snowflakes on your tongue.
Snow is snowy when it’s snowing
I’m sorry it’s slushy when it’s going.
SNOW
por Karla Kuskin
We’ll play in the snow
And stray in the snow
And stay in the snow
In a snow-white park.
We’ll clown in the snow
And frown in the snow
Fall down in the snow
Till it’s after dark.
We’ll cook snow pies
In a big snow pan.
We’ll make snow eyes
In a round snow man.
We’ll sing snow songs
And chant snow chants
And roll in the snow
In our fat snow pants.
And when it’s time to go inicial to eat
We’ll have snow toes
On our frosted feet.