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Удивительная книга. Как никогда актуальна сегодня. Язык и стиль автора настолько тонок, лёгок и изыскан, что легко поведёт читателя в мир героев, кото...
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A Satire Anthology
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Год написания книги
2017
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What makes you think, as I suppose
You do,
I’d ever want another man
Like you?
Eugene Fitch Ware.
WHAT WILL WE DO?
WHAT will we do when the good days come —
When the prima donna’s lips are dumb,
And the man who reads us his “little things”
Has lost his voice like the girl who sings;
When stilled is the breath of the cornet-man,
And the shrilling chords of the quartette clan;
When our neighbours’ children have lost their drums —
Oh, what will we do when the good time comes?
Oh, what will we do in that good, blithe time,
When the tramp will work – oh, thing sublime!
And the scornful dame who stands on your feet
Will “Thank you, sir,” for the proffered seat;
And the man you hire to work by the day,
Will allow you to do his work your way;
And the cook who trieth your appetite
Will steal no more than she thinks is right;
When the boy you hire will call you “Sir,”
Instead of “Say” and “Guverner”;
When the funny man is humorsome —
How can we stand the millennium?
Robert J. Burdette.
THE TOOL
THE man of brains, of fair repute and birth,
Who loves high place above all else of earth —
Who loves it so, he’ll go without the power,
If he may hold the semblance but an hour;
Willing to be some sordid creature’s tool,
So he but seem a little while to rule —
On him even moral pigmies would look down;
Were prizes given for shame, he’d wear the crown.
Richard Watson Gilder.
GIVE ME A THEME
“GIVE me a theme,” the little poet cried,
“And I will do my part.”
“’Tis not a theme you need,” the world replied;
“You need a heart.”
Richard Watson Gilder.
THE POEM, TO THE CRITIC
WEIGH me, if you’re fain;
Measure me, if it is your plan;
Know your little thimble-brain
Hold me never can.
Richard Watson Gilder.
BALLADE OF LITERARY FAME
“All these for fourpence.”
OH, where are the endless romances
Our grandmothers used to adore?
The knights with their helms and their lances,
Their shields and the favours they wore?
And the monks with their magical lore?
They have passed to oblivion and Nox;
They have fled to the shadowy shore —
They are all in the Fourpenny Box!
And where the poetical fancies
Our fathers rejoiced in, of yore?
The lyric’s melodious expanses,
The epics in cantos a score.
They have been, and are not. No more
Shall the shepherds drive silvery flocks,
Nor the ladies their languors deplore —
They are all in the Fourpenny Box!
And the music! The songs and the dances?
The tunes that time may not restore?
And the tomes where divinity prances?
And the pamphlets where heretics roar?
They have ceased to be even a bore, —
The divine, and the sceptic who mocks;
They are “cropped,” they are “foxed” to the core,
They are all in the Fourpenny Box!
Envoi
Suns beat on them; tempests downpour,
On the chest without cover or locks,
Where they lie by the Bookseller’s door —
Другие электронные книги автора Carolyn Wells
Последний отзыв
Удивительная книга. Как никогда актуальна сегодня. Язык и стиль автора настолько тонок, лёгок и изыскан, что легко поведёт читателя в мир героев, кото...
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