A Poem for the Middle of the Day.

DORCAS

One day a woman, gently bowed,
As with his easy yoke,
Stood on the borders of the crowd
Listening as Jesus spoke.

She saw the garment knit throughout;
Forgot the words he spake;
Thought only "Happy hands that wrought
The honoured robe to make!"

Her eyes with longing tears grew dim:
She never can come nigh
To do one service poor for him
For whom she glad would die.

Across the crowd, borne on the breeze,
Comes - "Inasmuch as ye
Did it unto the least of these,
Ye did it unto me."

Home, home she went, and plied the loom,
And God's dear poor arrayed.
She died - they wept about the room,
And showed the coats she made.
                                    George MacDonald

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I like this poem for its economy of words and thoughtful story.

A Poem for the Middle of the Night.

WHAT THE OWL KNOWS.

Nobody knows the world but me.
When they're all in bed, I sit up to see.
I'm a better student than students all,
For I never read till the darkness fall;
And I never read without my glasses,
And that is how my wisdom passes.

I can see the wind.  Now who can do that?
I see the dreams that he has in his hat;
I see him snorting them out as he goes -
Out at his stupid old trumpet-nose.
Ten thousand things that you couldn't think,
I write them down with pen and ink.

You may call it learning - I call it wit.
Who else can watch the lady-moon sit
Hatching the boats and the long-legged fowl,
On her nest, the sea, all night, but the owl?
When the oysters gape to sing by rote,
She crams a pearl down each stupid throat.

So you see I know - you may pull off your hat,
Whether round and lofty, or square and flat.
You can never do better than trust to me;
You may shut your eyes so long as I see.
While you live I will lead you, and then - I'm the owl -
I will bury you nicely with my spade and showl.
                                                                  George MacDonald

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This poem makes me laugh for its mix of didactic tone, grotesque imagery, and downright oddity.