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A Satire Anthology
Автор
Год написания книги
2017
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Because by thee no snare was spread
To baffle Love – if Love should stray;
Because thou dost not watch, they said,
To strictly compass Love each way;
Because thou dost not watch, as we,
Nor jealous Care hath lodged with thee,
To strew with thorns a restless bed —
Go to! Love loves thee not, they said.
Because thy feet were not misled
To jocund ground, yet all infirm;
Because thou art not fond, they said,
Nor dost exact thine heyday term;
Because thou art not fond, as we,
How dull a creature thou must be!
Thy pulse how slow, yet shrewd thy head!
Go to! Love loves thee not, they said.
Because thou hast not roved to wed
With those to Love averse or strange;
Because thou hast not roved, they said,
Nor ever studied artful change;
Because thou hast not roved, as we,
Love paid no ransom rich for thee,
Nor, seeking thee, unwearied sped.
Go to! Love loves thee not, they said.
Aye, so! because thou thought’st to tread
Love’s ways, and all his bidding do;
Because thou hast not tired, they said,
Nor ever wert to Love untrue;
Because thou hast not tired, as we,
How tedious must thy service be;
Love with thy zeal is surfeited!
Go to! Love loves thee not, they said.
Because thou hast not wanton shed
On every hand thy heritage;
Because thou art not flush, they said,
But hast regard to meagre age;
Because thou art not flush, as we,
How strait thy cautious soul must be!
How well thy thrift stands thee in stead!
Go to! Love loves thee not, they said.
And therefore look thou not for bread —
For wine and bread from Love’s deep store,
Because thou hast no need, they said;
But us he’ll feast forevermore!
Because thou hast no need, as we,
Sit in his purlieus, thou, and see
How with Love’s bounty we are fed.
Go to! Love loves thee not, they said.
Edith M. Thomas.
TO R. K
As long I dwell on some stupendous
And tremendous (Heaven defend us!)
Monstr’inform’-ingens-horrendous
Demoniaco-seraphic
Penman’s latest piece of graphic. —Browning.
WILL there never come a season
Which shall rid us from the curse
Of a prose which knows no reason,
And an unmelodious verse? —
When the world shall cease to wonder
At the genius of an Ass,
And a boy’s eccentric blunder
Shall not bring success to pass? —
When mankind shall be delivered
From the clash of magazines,
And the inkstand shall be shivered
Into countless smithereens? —
When there stands a muzzled stripling,
Mute, beside a muzzled bore? —
When the Rudyards cease from Kipling,
And the Haggards Ride no more?
J. K. Stephen.
TO MIGUEL DE CERVANTES SAAVEDRA
A BLUEBIRD lives in yonder tree,
Likewise a little chickadee,
In two woodpeckers’ nests, rent free.
There, where the weeping willow weeps,
A dainty house-wren sweetly cheeps;
From an old oriole’s nest she peeps.
I see the English sparrow tilt
Upon a limb with sun begilt;
Her nest an ancient swallow built.
So it was one of your old jests,
Eh, Mig. Cervantes, that attests
To baffle Love – if Love should stray;
Because thou dost not watch, they said,
To strictly compass Love each way;
Because thou dost not watch, as we,
Nor jealous Care hath lodged with thee,
To strew with thorns a restless bed —
Go to! Love loves thee not, they said.
Because thy feet were not misled
To jocund ground, yet all infirm;
Because thou art not fond, they said,
Nor dost exact thine heyday term;
Because thou art not fond, as we,
How dull a creature thou must be!
Thy pulse how slow, yet shrewd thy head!
Go to! Love loves thee not, they said.
Because thou hast not roved to wed
With those to Love averse or strange;
Because thou hast not roved, they said,
Nor ever studied artful change;
Because thou hast not roved, as we,
Love paid no ransom rich for thee,
Nor, seeking thee, unwearied sped.
Go to! Love loves thee not, they said.
Aye, so! because thou thought’st to tread
Love’s ways, and all his bidding do;
Because thou hast not tired, they said,
Nor ever wert to Love untrue;
Because thou hast not tired, as we,
How tedious must thy service be;
Love with thy zeal is surfeited!
Go to! Love loves thee not, they said.
Because thou hast not wanton shed
On every hand thy heritage;
Because thou art not flush, they said,
But hast regard to meagre age;
Because thou art not flush, as we,
How strait thy cautious soul must be!
How well thy thrift stands thee in stead!
Go to! Love loves thee not, they said.
And therefore look thou not for bread —
For wine and bread from Love’s deep store,
Because thou hast no need, they said;
But us he’ll feast forevermore!
Because thou hast no need, as we,
Sit in his purlieus, thou, and see
How with Love’s bounty we are fed.
Go to! Love loves thee not, they said.
Edith M. Thomas.
TO R. K
As long I dwell on some stupendous
And tremendous (Heaven defend us!)
Monstr’inform’-ingens-horrendous
Demoniaco-seraphic
Penman’s latest piece of graphic. —Browning.
WILL there never come a season
Which shall rid us from the curse
Of a prose which knows no reason,
And an unmelodious verse? —
When the world shall cease to wonder
At the genius of an Ass,
And a boy’s eccentric blunder
Shall not bring success to pass? —
When mankind shall be delivered
From the clash of magazines,
And the inkstand shall be shivered
Into countless smithereens? —
When there stands a muzzled stripling,
Mute, beside a muzzled bore? —
When the Rudyards cease from Kipling,
And the Haggards Ride no more?
J. K. Stephen.
TO MIGUEL DE CERVANTES SAAVEDRA
A BLUEBIRD lives in yonder tree,
Likewise a little chickadee,
In two woodpeckers’ nests, rent free.
There, where the weeping willow weeps,
A dainty house-wren sweetly cheeps;
From an old oriole’s nest she peeps.
I see the English sparrow tilt
Upon a limb with sun begilt;
Her nest an ancient swallow built.
So it was one of your old jests,
Eh, Mig. Cervantes, that attests
Другие электронные книги автора Carolyn Wells
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