Limericks and Poetry

Oh why do those lim'ricks affect me?
They bullyrag, plague and dissect me.
When writing for fun,
I can't be outdone!
Oh please don't you say they reflect me!

Oh, well.

Here's a nice link from WC on a poem, "The Death of a Toad." The author's description of why he wrote it, and what was on his mind, is really elucidating. I like the poem much better now. Here it is:

The Death of a Toad
Richard Wilbur

A toad the power mower caught,
Chewed and clipped of a leg, with a hobbling hop has got
To the garden verge, and sanctuaried him
Under the cineraria leaves, in the shade
Of the ashen and heartshaped leaves, in a dim,
Low, and a final glade.

The rare original heartsbleed goes,
Spends in the earthen hide, in the folds and wizenings, flows
In the gutters of the banked and staring eyes. He lies
As still as if he would return to stone,
And soundlessly attending, dies
Toward some deep monotone,

Toward misted and ebullient seas
And cooling shores, toward lost Amphibia's emperies.
Day dwindles, drowning and at length is gone
In the wide and antique eyes, which still appear
To watch, across the castrate lawn,
The haggard daylight steer.