William Wordsworth wandered lonely as a cloud,

as Dylan Thomas beseeched him to, “Do not go gentle into that good night.”

Langston Hughes pondered to no one in particular, “What happens to a dream

deferred?”

In a heated debate all their own, J. Alfred Prufrock asked T.S. Eliot, “Do I dare disturb

the universe?”

Maya Angelou interrupted and proclaimed, “I know why the caged bird sings.”

Herman Melville, for some unknown reason, wanted us to call him Ishmael, while

George Orwell swore the clocks were striking thirteen.

Charles Dickens was beside himself for he couldn’t make up his mind and kept

muttering, “It was the best of times; it was the worst of times.”

Sensing that the fate of the world rested on his shoulders, Ray Bradbury struck a

match and lit the collection of old parchment he had gathered. As he watched the

flames rise, he announced, “It was a pleasure to burn the books.”

This didn’t sit well with Jack London for he believed that only he knew how to build a

fire.

I stood with Rebecca, and the ashes blew towards us with the salt wind from the sea.

Robert Frost, having had enough of all of us, called it an early night and took the road

not taken home.