Where it is customary the cow is brought to bed.
Swiss proverbs
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Related quotes
Drawing a Purple Blank Verse after Gelett BURGESS Purple Cow
DRAWING A PURPLE BLANK VERSE
Kindly refer to notes
I've never cowed to purple prose
know now I'll never write it,
for anyhow true writer knows
hand stretched finds critics bite it.
I've never wowed, and goodness knows
hacks lack the knack of versing,
won't bow, kowtow to backhand blows,
preferring role reverse_sing.
Ah, yes, I wrote on purple prose,
yet can't regret I penned it,
one far prefers rhyme's timeless flows,
no blush need rush defend it.
10 February 2009
robi03_1856_burg01_0001 PWX_IXX
Parody Gelett BURGESS The Purple Cow
Author notes
For original and variations on a theme see bekiw
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII
THE PURPLE COW
I never saw a Purple Cow,
I never hope to see one,
But I can tell you anyhow,
I’d rather see than be one.
Gelett BURGESS 1866_1951
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII
CONFESSION
Ah, yes! I wrote the « Purple Cow » -
I’m Sorry, now, I Wrote it,
But I can Tell you Anyhow
I’ll Kill you if you Quote it.
Gelett BURGESS 1866_1951
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII
A Perfect Woman
[...] Read more
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Handles Bermuda
bean bag spokane
betty boop retro bowling bag
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belongs in your bag wedge grab
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bean bag drink holder
betseyville be mine satchel bag
bean bags inexpensive
bean bag shotgun pics
bedouin bag by radley
b ean bags bulk
bean bag toss tailgate games
bella animal print bag
beresford packaging plastic bags
bean bag store toronto
ben sherman messenger bags
bejui bags
beijo bags
[...] Read more
poem by Rwetewrt Erwtwer
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The Purple Cow Parodies
Gelett Burgess' original poem…
A Purple Cow
I never saw a Purple Cow,
I never hope to see one;
But I can tell you, anyhow,
I'd rather see than be one.
Poem parodied in the
style of…
John Milton
Hence, vain, deluding cows.
The herd of folly, without colour bright,
How little you delight,
Or fill the Poet's mind, or songs arouse!
But, hail! thou goddess gay of feature!
Hail divinest purple creature!
Oh, Cow, thy visage is too bright
To hit the sense of human sight.
And though I'd like, just once, to see thee
I never, never, never'd be thee!
Percy Bysshe Shelley
Hail to thee, blithe spirit!
Cow thou never wert;
But in life to cheer it
Playest thy full part
In purple lines of unpremeditated art.
The pale purple colour
Melts around thy sight
Like a star, but duller,
In the broad daylight.
I'd see thee, but I would not be thee if I might.
We look before and after
At the cattle as they browse;
Our most hearty laughter
Something sad must rouse.
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of Purple Cows.
[...] Read more
poem by Carolyn Wells
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Luggage Canada
b ean bag stoer
bed liner motorcycle bags
bern aby bag
bed in a bag ty pennington
beetle bags roadstar midnight star
bean bag chairs burbank
bedroom in a bag justine
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ben hogan golf mystique stand bag
bicyce crossbar bag
bean bag shells shotgun
[...] Read more
poem by Rwetewrt Erwtwer
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Cow
Aw, go write yer tinklin' jingle, an' yer pretty phrases mingle,
Fer the mamby-pamby girl, all fluffy frill an' shinin' silk.
Them's the sort ter fetch yer trouble, when yer tries 'em, in the double.
Blow yer beauty! Wot's the matter with the maiden 'oo kin milk?
Them there rhymers uv the wattle! An' the bardlet uv the bottle -
'Im that sings uv sparklin' wine, an' does a perish fer the beer;
An' yer slap-dash 'orsey po-it! Garn! If you blokes only know it,
You 'ave missed the single subjec' fit ter rhyme about down 'ere.
An' although I ain't a bard, with bloomin' bays upon me brow,
I kinsider that it's up ter me ter sing about The Cow.
Cow, Cow
(Though it ain't a pretty row,
It's a word that 'ipnertises me; I couldn't tell yer 'ow.)
Though I ain't a gifted rhymer,
Nor a blamed Parnassus climber,
I'm inspired ter sing a tune er two about the Blessed Cow.
0h, the cow-bells are a-tinklin', and the daisies are a twinklin'
Well, that ain't the style ersackly I intended fer to sing.
'Ark, was over music greater then the buzzin' sepy-rater,
Coinin' gaily money daily fer the - no, that's not the thing!
'Omeward comes the cows a-lowin', an' the butter-cups are blowin';
But there's better butter in the - Blarst ! That ain't the proper way
See the pretty milkmaid walkin' - aw, it ain't no use er talkin'.
Listen 'ere, I want ter tell yer this: A cow's ther thing ter pay!
Sell yer 'orses, sell yer arrers, an' yer reapers, an' yer plough;
If yer want yer land ter pay yer, sacrifice yer life ter Cow
Cow, Cow
Sittin' underneath the bough,
With a bail, an' with a pail, an' with a little stool, an' thou
Kickin' when I pull yer teat there,
Swishin' flies, the pretty creatur.
Ah, there ain't no music sweeter - money squirtin' from the Cow.
Take away the wine-cup; take it. An' the foamin' flagon, break it.
Brimmin' cups uv butter-milk'll set yer glowin' thro' an' thro';
An' the reason I'm teetotal is becos me thrifty throat'll
Jest refuse ter swaller stuff that's costin' me a precious sou.
Once I wus a sinful spender. Used ter go a roarin' bender
Used ter often spend a thruppence when ther' wasn't any need.
An' the many ways I've busted money, when I should er trusted
It ter cattle an' erconomy, 'ud cause yer 'eart ter bleed
But I'm glad, me friends, that godliness 'as made me careful now;
Tho' I lorst the thing wot's next it when I cottoned ter the Cow.
Cow, Cow
Trudin' thro' the sloppy slough.
Ah, I once despised the Jews, but I kin under-stand 'em now
When they needed elevatin',
An' ole Moses kep' 'em waitin'
Fer religi'n, they went straight 'n' sorter substichooted Cow.
[...] Read more
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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100 STD's 10,000 MTD's
There are STD's, sexually transmitted diseases.
and then there are MTD's, meat transmitted diseases.
The latter take a lot more lives.
*********
In Animal Flesh: Blood Sweat Tears as well as Carcinogens Cholesterol Colon Bacteria
Animal products kill more people annually in the US than
tobacco, alcohol, traffic accidents, war, domestic violence,
guns, and drugs combined. USAMRID wrote that consumption of pig flesh caused the world's most lethal pandemic in WW1,
euphemistically called flu. Anthrax
used to be called wool sorters'
disease. Smallpox used to be called
cow pox or kine pox because of
its origin in animal flesh.
.
WHAT'S IN A BURGER? BLOOD SWEAT AND TEARS (AS WELL AS BIOTERRORISM)
POISONS IN ANIMAL AND FISH FLESH... A PARTIAL LIST
a partial list in alphabetical order
acidification diseases
addiction (to trioxypurines)
adrenalin (secreted by terrorized
animals before and during slaughter)
ANTIBIOTICS (too many to list) (crowded factory farm animals standing in their own feces are often infected)
BACTERIA
creiophilic bacteria survive
the freezing of animal flesh
thermophilic bacteria survive
the baking boiling and roasting
bacteriophages (viruses FDA allows to
be injected)
blood
colon bacteria.. euphemistically
called ecoli animals defecate
all over themselves in terror
John Harvey Kellogg MD studied
the exponential rate into the billions
BSE DISEASES, PRIONS IN SPECIES FROM GELATIN (JELLO ETC)
Mad Chicken
[...] Read more
poem by O. Anna Niemus
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Bed Bed Bed
The day is done
The sun is down
The curtains have been drawn
And darkness has descended over everything in town
The covers have been turned and I've got my pajamas on
I've had my fun
I've stretched and yawned and all is said and done
I'm going to bed
Bed bed bed bed bed
I've done so many things today
There's nothing left to do
I ate three meals, I rode my bike, I hung out with my friends
I did my chores, I watched TV, I practiced the guitar
I brushed my teeth, I read my book, and then I sat around
I'm going to bed
Bed bed bed bed bed
Moo
Moo
Moo
Moo
Oh it's pointless staying up for even twenty seconds more
When everything has happened and there's nothing else in store
The thing is now to lay my head down, close my eyes, and snore
And so to bed directly I go
The day is done
The sun is down
The curtains have been drawn
And darkness has descended over everything in town
The covers have been turned and I've got my pajamas on
I've had my fun
I've stretched and yawned and all is said and done
I'm going to bed
Bed bed bed bed bed
Bed
Bed bed bed bed bed
I'm going to bed
Bed bed bed bed bed bed bed bed bed
song performed by They Might Be Giants
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Seasonable Retour-Knell
SEASONABLE RETOUR KNELL
Variations on a theme...
SEASONABLE ROUND ROBIN ROLE REVERSALS
Author notes
A mirrored Retourne may not only be read either from first line to last or from last to first as seen in the mirrors, but also by inverting the first and second phrase of each line, either rhyming AAAA or ABAB for each verse. thus the number of variations could be multiplied several times.- two variations on the theme have been included here but could have been extended as in SEASONABLE ROUND ROBIN ROLE REVERSALS robi03_0069_robi03_0000
In respect of SEASONABLE ROUND ROBIN ROLE REVERSALS
This composition has sought to explore linguistic potential. Notes and the initial version are placed before rather than after the poem.
Six variations on a theme have been selected out of a significant number of mathematical possibilities using THE SAME TEXT and a reverse mirror for each version. Mirrors repeat the seasons with the lines in reverse order.
For the second roll the first four syllables of each line are reversed, and sense is retained both in the normal order of seasons and the reversed order as well... The 3rd and 4th variations offer ABAB rhyme schemes retaining the original text. The 5th and 6th variations modify the text into rhyming couplets.
Given the linguistical structure of this symphonic composition the score could be read in inversing each and every line and each and every hemistitch. There are minor punctuation differences between versions.
One could probably attain sonnet status for each of the four seasons and through partioning in 3 groups of 4 syllables extend the possibilites ad vitam.
Seasonable Round Robin Roll Reversals
robi03_0069_robi03_0000 QXX_DNZ
Seasonable Retour-Knell
robi03_0070_robi03_0069 QXX_NXX
26 March 1975 rewritten 20070123
lllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll lllllllllllllllllll
For previous version see below
_______________________________________
SPRING SUMMER
Life is at ease Young lovers long
Land under plough; To hold their dear;
Whispering trees, Dewdrops among,
Answering cow. Bold, know no fear.
Blossom, the bees, Life full of song,
Burgeoning bough; Cloudless and clear;
Soft-scented breeze, Days fair and long,
Spring warms life now. Summer sends cheer.
AUTUMN WINTER
Each leaf decays, Harvested sheaves
Each life must bow; And honeyed hives;
Our salad days Trees stripped of leaves,
Are ending now. Jack Frost has knives.
Fruit heavy lays Time, Prince of thieves,
Bending the bough, - Onward he drives,
[...] Read more
poem by Jonathan Robin
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The Tower Beyond Tragedy
I
You'd never have thought the Queen was Helen's sister- Troy's
burning-flower from Sparta, the beautiful sea-flower
Cut in clear stone, crowned with the fragrant golden mane, she
the ageless, the uncontaminable-
This Clytemnestra was her sister, low-statured, fierce-lipped, not
dark nor blonde, greenish-gray-eyed,
Sinewed with strength, you saw, under the purple folds of the
queen-cloak, but craftier than queenly,
Standing between the gilded wooden porch-pillars, great steps of
stone above the steep street,
Awaiting the King.
Most of his men were quartered on the town;
he, clanking bronze, with fifty
And certain captives, came to the stair. The Queen's men were
a hundred in the street and a hundred
Lining the ramp, eighty on the great flags of the porch; she
raising her white arms the spear-butts
Thundered on the stone, and the shields clashed; eight shining
clarions
Let fly from the wide window over the entrance the wildbirds of
their metal throats, air-cleaving
Over the King come home. He raised his thick burnt-colored
beard and smiled; then Clytemnestra,
Gathering the robe, setting the golden-sandaled feet carefully,
stone by stone, descended
One half the stair. But one of the captives marred the comeliness
of that embrace with a cry
Gull-shrill, blade-sharp, cutting between the purple cloak and
the bronze plates, then Clytemnestra:
Who was it? The King answered: A piece of our goods out of
the snatch of Asia, a daughter of the king,
So treat her kindly and she may come into her wits again. Eh,
you keep state here my queen.
You've not been the poorer for me.- In heart, in the widowed
chamber, dear, she pale replied, though the slaves
Toiled, the spearmen were faithful. What's her name, the slavegirl's?
AGAMEMNON Come up the stair. They tell me my kinsman's
Lodged himself on you.
CLYTEMNESTRA Your cousin Aegisthus? He was out of refuge,
flits between here and Tiryns.
Dear: the girl's name?
AGAMEMNON Cassandra. We've a hundred or so other
captives; besides two hundred
Rotted in the hulls, they tell odd stories about you and your
guest: eh? no matter: the ships
Ooze pitch and the August road smokes dirt, I smell like an
old shepherd's goatskin, you'll have bath-water?
CLYTEMNESTRA
They're making it hot. Come, my lord. My hands will pour it.
[...] Read more
poem by Robinson Jeffers
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The Great Man Who Ate Cow Dung All His Life (secretly)
everyday
he feeds himself
with cow dung
but this is done
discreetly
for who in this
normal world
would like
to satisfy
himself with
dung
who in this
society would
love a man
who eats and
smells like
cow dung?
of course, he
feared
that soon if
society knows
he shall be
another ostracized
ostrich
electrically fenced
and monitored
and segregated
at Ward 8
for social
rehabilitation
he didn't like dung
reason and logic
so tell him well
but he couldn't resist
the smell of dung
even if it is kilometers
away
there is simply this
obsession for
cow dung
and he begins
to salivate even
for the word
dung
and for so many nights
he prayed
that his mind-set be
[...] Read more
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Two cows deconstruct Derrida
These two cows were ruminating
and one says, I was listening
to the milkmaid’s transistor
and this French philosopher
was explaining that there’s
no English translation of the French word
‘betise’ except ‘stupidity’ but
‘stupidity’ only refers to man
where the French ‘betise’ means
to behave like an animal…
and the other cow says
well what’s wrong with that
and the first cow says
well his point is, English cows
can’t be stupid; only man
can be stupid..
and the other cow says
well that’s a relief then
so does that mean that French cows
can be stupid
and the first cow says
no because they don’t have a word for it
in French
so the other cow says
so then is it better to be
an English cow
that can’t be stupid
or a French cow
that can’t be called stupid
and the first cow says
who cares, I’ve always said
the French ruminate too much
and then talk bullshit…
and the other cow says
I’m glad I’m a Jersey
what about that French milkmaid
I call sexyhands but
the farmer sometimes calls
a silly cow I wonder what
Derrida would say about that
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Joy Inside My Tears
Ive always come to the conclusion that but is the way
Of asking for permission to lay something heavy on ones head
So I have tried to not be the one who ll fall into that line
But what I feel inside I think you should know
And baby thats you - you - you
Made lifes his*to*ry
Caue youve brought some joy inside my tears
And you have done what no one thought could be
Youve brought some joy inside my tears
Ive alwys felt that tomorroqw is for those who are too much afraid
To go past yesterday and start for today
I feel that lasting moments are coming fr and few between
So I should tell you of the happiness that you bring
Baby, baby its you - you - you
Made lifes his*to*ry
Oh baby, youve brought some joy inside my tears
Baby you have done what no one thought could be
You brought some joy inside my tears
You brought some joy inside my tears
You brought some joy inside my tears
Youve brought some joy inside my tears
Baby, baby you have done what no one thought could be
He - y, you brought some joy inside my tears
Gotta tell you
You - you - you made lifes his*to*ry
You brought some joy inside my tears
- you brought you brought you brought some joy inside my tears
Baby baby baby you have done what no one thought could be
You brought some joy inside my tears
You made it baby you made it baby made it made lifes his*to*ry
- you you you made lifes his*to*ry
You brought some joy inside my tears
You have done what no one thought could be
- no-body ever thought it would be
You have done what no one thought could be
You you you made lifes his*to*ry
- gotta shout about it baby
You brought some joy inside my tears
You have done what no one thought could be
You brought some joy inside my tears
You you you made lifes his*to*ry
You brought some joy inside my tears
You brought some joy inside my tears
You brought some joy inside my
Tears
song performed by Stevie Wonder
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The Martyr of Bovinia
She milked the cow; and all the morn was hushed
(It was a beast that never kicked or rushed)
The startled dicky-birds of early Spring
Sat up amazed to mark this splendid thing,
Nigh fainting with delight upon the bough . . . .
She milked the cow.
She milked the cow; nor all the glory rare
Of that October morning could compare
With that sweet sylvan scene; the grace, the charm
The rhythmic movement of her dimpled arm,
Would make a poor bloke feel just anyhow . . . .
She milked the cow.
She milked the cow. 'Twas at South Sassafras
(Which is a cruel word to rhyme,alas)
And all who gazed thereon decalred, with force,
It was sublime - except the cow, of course
Who wore a patient frown upn her brow . . . .
She milked the cow.
She milked the cow - at least, she said she did.
There was the milk in proof; and God forbid
That I should doubt the statement in the least,
(I sympathised in private with the beast
Who said - but still, what does it matter now?)
She milked the cow.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Brought Down
I was seldom sober in nineteen hundred and fifthy-four
Hey baby, maybe cause my baby had a baby by me
And I was still drinking dry gin
While you cried no, no more
And you were lyin and a-cryin,
And your tears fell dying on the floor
And Im brought down,
And I dont think I can get up again
Brought down,
My heart is hurt again
You were the fine lady in the early mornings
That always painted her toes
And lookin towards the east
Youd say hello to the early dawn before they rose
And you were the love lady
That always hung up her finely pressed clothes
And sayin so long to the western sundown,
You taught me how it grows
And Im brought down,
And I dont think I can get up again
Brought down,
And you just hurt my heart again
Brought down
Brought down
Im brought down
Brought down
Brought down
Brought down
Down
Im brought down,
And I dont think I can get up again
Im brought down,
Im hurt, its bad
[brought down]
God, its a shame theres no more dr. strangely strange {dss=1960/70s band}
[brought down]
And Im brou.....[brought down]......ught down
[brought down]
And there must be more to life than this
song performed by Thin Lizzy
Added by Lucian Velea
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Brought Down
I was seldom sober in nineteen hundred and fifthy-four
Hey baby, maybe cause my baby had a baby by me
And I was still drinking dry gin
While you cried no, no more
And you were lyin and a-cryin,
And your tears fell dying on the floor
And Im brought down,
And I dont think I can get up again
Brought down,
My heart is hurt again
You were the fine lady in the early mornings
That always painted her toes
And lookin towards the east
Youd say hello to the early dawn before they rose
And you were the love lady
That always hung up her finely pressed clothes
And sayin so long to the western sundown,
You taught me how it grows
And Im brought down,
And I dont think I can get up again
Brought down,
And you just hurt my heart again
Brought down
Brought down
Im brought down
Brought down
Brought down
Brought down
Down
Im brought down,
And I dont think I can get up again
Im brought down,
Im hurt, its bad
[brought down]
God, its a shame theres no more dr. strangely strange {dss=1960/70s band}
[brought down]
And Im brou.....[brought down]......ught down
[brought down]
And there must be more to life than this
song performed by Thin Lizzy
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The Nuptials Of Attila
I
Flat as to an eagle's eye,
Earth hung under Attila.
Sign for carnage gave he none.
In the peace of his disdain,
Sun and rain, and rain and sun,
Cherished men to wax again,
Crawl, and in their manner die.
On his people stood a frost.
Like the charger cut in stone,
Rearing stiff, the warrior host,
Which had life from him alone,
Craved the trumpet's eager note,
As the bridled earth the Spring.
Rusty was the trumpet's throat.
He let chief and prophet rave;
Venturous earth around him string
Threads of grass and slender rye,
Wave them, and untrampled wave.
O for the time when God did cry,
Eye and have, my Attila!
II
Scorn of conquest filled like sleep
Him that drank of havoc deep
When the Green Cat pawed the globe:
When the horsemen from his bow
Shot in sheaves and made the foe
Crimson fringes of a robe,
Trailed o'er towns and fields in woe;
When they streaked the rivers red,
When the saddle was the bed.
Attila, my Attila!
III
He breathed peace and pulled a flower.
Eye and have, my Attila!
This was the damsel Ildico,
Rich in bloom until that hour:
Shyer than the forest doe
Twinkling slim through branches green.
Yet the shyest shall be seen.
Make the bed for Attila!
IV
Seen of Attila, desired,
[...] Read more
poem by George Meredith
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Tamar
I
A night the half-moon was like a dancing-girl,
No, like a drunkard's last half-dollar
Shoved on the polished bar of the eastern hill-range,
Young Cauldwell rode his pony along the sea-cliff;
When she stopped, spurred; when she trembled, drove
The teeth of the little jagged wheels so deep
They tasted blood; the mare with four slim hooves
On a foot of ground pivoted like a top,
Jumped from the crumble of sod, went down, caught, slipped;
Then, the quick frenzy finished, stiffening herself
Slid with her drunken rider down the ledges,
Shot from sheer rock and broke
Her life out on the rounded tidal boulders.
The night you know accepted with no show of emotion the little
accident; grave Orion
Moved northwest from the naked shore, the moon moved to
meridian, the slow pulse of the ocean
Beat, the slow tide came in across the slippery stones; it drowned
the dead mare's muzzle and sluggishly
Felt for the rider; Cauldwell’s sleepy soul came back from the
blind course curious to know
What sea-cold fingers tapped the walls of its deserted ruin.
Pain, pain and faintness, crushing
Weights, and a vain desire to vomit, and soon again
die icy fingers, they had crept over the loose hand and lay in the
hair now. He rolled sidewise
Against mountains of weight and for another half-hour lay still.
With a gush of liquid noises
The wave covered him head and all, his body
Crawled without consciousness and like a creature with no bones,
a seaworm, lifted its face
Above the sea-wrack of a stone; then a white twilight grew about
the moon, and above
The ancient water, the everlasting repetition of the dawn. You
shipwrecked horseman
So many and still so many and now for you the last. But when it
grew daylight
He grew quite conscious; broken ends of bone ground on each
other among the working fibers
While by half-inches he was drawing himself out of the seawrack
up to sandy granite,
Out of the tide's path. Where the thin ledge tailed into flat cliff
he fell asleep. . . .
Far seaward
The daylight moon hung like a slip of cloud against the horizon.
The tide was ebbing
From the dead horse and the black belt of sea-growth. Cauldwell
seemed to have felt her crying beside him,
[...] Read more
poem by Robinson Jeffers
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VII. Pompilia
I am just seventeen years and five months old,
And, if I lived one day more, three full weeks;
'T is writ so in the church's register,
Lorenzo in Lucina, all my names
At length, so many names for one poor child,
—Francesca Camilla Vittoria Angela
Pompilia Comparini,—laughable!
Also 't is writ that I was married there
Four years ago: and they will add, I hope,
When they insert my death, a word or two,—
Omitting all about the mode of death,—
This, in its place, this which one cares to know,
That I had been a mother of a son
Exactly two weeks. It will be through grace
O' the Curate, not through any claim I have;
Because the boy was born at, so baptized
Close to, the Villa, in the proper church:
A pretty church, I say no word against,
Yet stranger-like,—while this Lorenzo seems
My own particular place, I always say.
I used to wonder, when I stood scarce high
As the bed here, what the marble lion meant,
With half his body rushing from the wall,
Eating the figure of a prostrate man—
(To the right, it is, of entry by the door)
An ominous sign to one baptized like me,
Married, and to be buried there, I hope.
And they should add, to have my life complete,
He is a boy and Gaetan by name—
Gaetano, for a reason,—if the friar
Don Celestine will ask this grace for me
Of Curate Ottoboni: he it was
Baptized me: he remembers my whole life
As I do his grey hair.
All these few things
I know are true,—will you remember them?
Because time flies. The surgeon cared for me,
To count my wounds,—twenty-two dagger-wounds,
Five deadly, but I do not suffer much—
Or too much pain,—and am to die to-night.
Oh how good God is that my babe was born,
—Better than born, baptized and hid away
Before this happened, safe from being hurt!
That had been sin God could not well forgive:
He was too young to smile and save himself.
When they took two days after he was born,
My babe away from me to be baptized
And hidden awhile, for fear his foe should find,—
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
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III. The Other Half-Rome
Another day that finds her living yet,
Little Pompilia, with the patient brow
And lamentable smile on those poor lips,
And, under the white hospital-array,
A flower-like body, to frighten at a bruise
You'd think, yet now, stabbed through and through again,
Alive i' the ruins. 'T is a miracle.
It seems that, when her husband struck her first,
She prayed Madonna just that she might live
So long as to confess and be absolved;
And whether it was that, all her sad life long
Never before successful in a prayer,
This prayer rose with authority too dread,—
Or whether, because earth was hell to her,
By compensation, when the blackness broke
She got one glimpse of quiet and the cool blue,
To show her for a moment such things were,—
Or else,—as the Augustinian Brother thinks,
The friar who took confession from her lip,—
When a probationary soul that moved
From nobleness to nobleness, as she,
Over the rough way of the world, succumbs,
Bloodies its last thorn with unflinching foot,
The angels love to do their work betimes,
Staunch some wounds here nor leave so much for God.
Who knows? However it be, confessed, absolved,
She lies, with overplus of life beside
To speak and right herself from first to last,
Right the friend also, lamb-pure, lion-brave,
Care for the boy's concerns, to save the son
From the sire, her two-weeks' infant orphaned thus,
And—with best smile of all reserved for him—
Pardon that sire and husband from the heart.
A miracle, so tell your Molinists!
There she lies in the long white lazar-house.
Rome has besieged, these two days, never doubt,
Saint Anna's where she waits her death, to hear
Though but the chink o' the bell, turn o' the hinge
When the reluctant wicket opes at last,
Lets in, on now this and now that pretence,
Too many by half,—complain the men of art,—
For a patient in such plight. The lawyers first
Paid the due visit—justice must be done;
They took her witness, why the murder was.
Then the priests followed properly,—a soul
To shrive; 't was Brother Celestine's own right,
The same who noises thus her gifts abroad.
But many more, who found they were old friends,
Pushed in to have their stare and take their talk
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poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
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The Iliad: Book 24
The assembly now broke up and the people went their ways each to his
own ship. There they made ready their supper, and then bethought
them of the blessed boon of sleep; but Achilles still wept for
thinking of his dear comrade, and sleep, before whom all things bow,
could take no hold upon him. This way and that did he turn as he
yearned after the might and manfulness of Patroclus; he thought of all
they had done together, and all they had gone through both on the
field of battle and on the waves of the weary sea. As he dwelt on
these things he wept bitterly and lay now on his side, now on his
back, and now face downwards, till at last he rose and went out as one
distraught to wander upon the seashore. Then, when he saw dawn
breaking over beach and sea, he yoked his horses to his chariot, and
bound the body of Hector behind it that he might drag it about. Thrice
did he drag it round the tomb of the son of Menoetius, and then went
back into his tent, leaving the body on the ground full length and
with its face downwards. But Apollo would not suffer it to be
disfigured, for he pitied the man, dead though he now was; therefore
he shielded him with his golden aegis continually, that he might
take no hurt while Achilles was dragging him.
Thus shamefully did Achilles in his fury dishonour Hector; but the
blessed gods looked down in pity from heaven, and urged Mercury,
slayer of Argus, to steal the body. All were of this mind save only
Juno, Neptune, and Jove's grey-eyed daughter, who persisted in the
hate which they had ever borne towards Ilius with Priam and his
people; for they forgave not the wrong done them by Alexandrus in
disdaining the goddesses who came to him when he was in his
sheepyards, and preferring her who had offered him a wanton to his
ruin.
When, therefore, the morning of the twelfth day had now come,
Phoebus Apollo spoke among the immortals saying, "You gods ought to be
ashamed of yourselves; you are cruel and hard-hearted. Did not
Hector burn you thigh-bones of heifers and of unblemished goats? And
now dare you not rescue even his dead body, for his wife to look upon,
with his mother and child, his father Priam, and his people, who would
forthwith commit him to the flames, and give him his due funeral
rites? So, then, you would all be on the side of mad Achilles, who
knows neither right nor ruth? He is like some savage lion that in
the pride of his great strength and daring springs upon men's flocks
and gorges on them. Even so has Achilles flung aside all pity, and all
that conscience which at once so greatly banes yet greatly boons him
that will heed it. man may lose one far dearer than Achilles has lost-
a son, it may be, or a brother born from his own mother's womb; yet
when he has mourned him and wept over him he will let him bide, for it
takes much sorrow to kill a man; whereas Achilles, now that he has
slain noble Hector, drags him behind his chariot round the tomb of his
comrade. It were better of him, and for him, that he should not do so,
for brave though he be we gods may take it ill that he should vent his
fury upon dead clay."
Juno spoke up in a rage. "This were well," she cried, "O lord of the
silver bow, if you would give like honour to Hector and to Achilles;
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poem by Homer, translated by Samuel Butler
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