ZeN Poetry Of Water
1) Water becomes water and she reflects and contemplates herself
till she is water and finally she is water and she does not exit as water
but she is composition of W-A-T-E-R.
2) Water becomes water and she reflects and contemplates herself
till she is water and finally she is water and she does not exit as water
but she is composition of W-A-T-E-R.
3) Water becomes water and she reflects and contemplates herself
till she is water and finally she is water and she does not exit as water
but she is composition of W-A-T-E-R.
poem by Nyein Way
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The Cenci : A Tragedy In Five Acts
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ
Count Francesco Cenci.
Giacomo, his Son.
Bernardo, his Son.
Cardinal Camillo.
Orsino, a Prelate.
Savella, the Pope's Legate.
Olimpio, Assassin.
Marzio, Assassin.
Andrea, Servant to Cenci.
Nobles, Judges, Guards, Servants.
Lucretia, Wife of Cenci, and Step-mother of his children.
Beatrice, his Daughter.
The Scene lies principally in Rome, but changes during the Fourth Act to Petrella, a castle among the Apulian Apennines.
Time. During the Pontificate of Clement VIII.
ACT I
Scene I.
-An Apartment in the Cenci Palace.
Enter Count Cenci, and Cardinal Camillo.
Camillo.
That matter of the murder is hushed up
If you consent to yield his Holiness
Your fief that lies beyond the Pincian gate.-
It needed all my interest in the conclave
To bend him to this point: he said that you
Bought perilous impunity with your gold;
That crimes like yours if once or twice compounded
Enriched the Church, and respited from hell
An erring soul which might repent and live:-
But that the glory and the interest
Of the high throne he fills, little consist
With making it a daily mart of guilt
As manifold and hideous as the deeds
Which you scarce hide from men's revolted eyes.
Cenci.
The third of my possessions-let it go!
Ay, I once heard the nephew of the Pope
Had sent his architect to view the ground,
Meaning to build a villa on my vines
The next time I compounded with his uncle:
I little thought he should outwit me so!
[...] Read more
poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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Last Exit Brooklyn
When the sun crashes into your world
Look around and you try and find your girl
And youre daring, too sick of what you see
Out of town is the only place to be
When your life starts to run out of juice
Feel like dyin and you just want to get loose
Prayin moves dont make much sense to you
Seeing red before your feeling is blue
Last exit brooklyn....last exit brooklyn
Going back, getting out of this town
Stretch it lean and mean, it turns you around
Take your dreams and stretch them out on the street
Take your turn to get back on your feet
Feel the wheels singin over the ridge
Feel the song like oakland take you
All the time you knew you had the itch
All the girls were glad to see you
Last exit brooklyn....last exit brooklyn
Girl in ol v wont pray
Dont give you a hard time
All the girls from brooklyn say
Last exit brooklyn....last exit brooklyn
Do you remember the day you left the block
Your mama said you would live to regret it
Coming home, coming stoned, come in hope, coming ready
Are you holding steady
Last exit brooklyn....last exit brooklyn....last exit brooklyn
(mccafferty, agnew, charlton, sweet)
1984 fool circle music
song performed by Nazareth
Added by Lucian Velea
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Mirror mirror…
A mirror reflects all but lies.
Reflects the things
Everyone denies.
Reflects the way
You shaped yourself.
Reflects the things
Complex, simple, hidden and obvious.
Reflects the things
We have done in our lives.
Reflects the things
We don’t want to see.
But it has never reflected
Me.
In darkness and alone
I sit at the edge
Of icy cold black water.
Mirror mirror…
I sit their staring at no reflection
Thinking of the things I am,
Daughter, student, sister, lover.
But it does not define to me who I am.
I see all the things
I don’t want to see.
Perhaps than there is no “me”?
I do not exist in my reflections.
I can not find me in those titles.
Mirror mirror…
Perhaps then it is fact
Am I nothing more but that?
So should I satisfy with the things I see?
Is life’s lesson then that you should “just be”?
Is there nothing more then the endless time passing?
Mirror mirror…
Perhaps it is why it is never said
That a mirror holds an answer.
poem by Zarina Binda
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Mirrors…..
Take a look in the mirror and realize what you see..
Is it really you or someone you cannot be..
What you say in the mirror, is what the mirror tells..
Then why your own mirror, reflects some one else..
Every mirror has a story, it does tell a tale..
It reflects joy of success, and your tears when you fail..
The mirror never lies, it reflects what is true..
If you yourself dont know who you are, how can it reflect you..? ?
You may look perfect in the mirror, but take a look inside..
There are things unsaid, untold, now your eyes fail to hide..
Watch right through your soul, make sure it's not haunting..
Never realized who you are, your self-esteem still taunting..? ?
The mirror reflects a question mark, that is it really fair..? ?
You failed to live for others, for yourself only you care..
Look in the reflective gaze of glass, try finding your mistake..
Move close, Gaze into the lie and realize that it's fake...
Ask the mirror to reflect the facts, and to show the truth..
Wrongs you did in your life, right from childhood to youth..
Stop wishing for more, the mirrages will never be true..
It may be close to perfection, but it is just not you..
Make your soul your mirror, one that doesn't lie..
Make it pure and crystal clear, say a prayer up high..
Your heart reflects the person you are, so there's nothing to hide..
No mirror reflects you better then the one inside..
poem by Abhijit Surve
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The Interpretation of Nature and
I.
MAN, being the servant and interpreter of Nature, can do and understand so much and so much only as he has observed in fact or in thought of the course of nature: beyond this he neither knows anything nor can do anything.
II.
Neither the naked hand nor the understanding left to itself can effect much. It is by instruments and helps that the work is done, which are as much wanted for the understanding as for the hand. And as the instruments of the hand either give motion or guide it, so the instruments of the mind supply either suggestions for the understanding or cautions.
III.
Human knowledge and human power meet in one; for where the cause is not known the effect cannot be produced. Nature to be commanded must be obeyed; and that which in contemplation is as the cause is in operation as the rule.
IV.
Towards the effecting of works, all that man can do is to put together or put asunder natural bodies. The rest is done by nature working within.
V.
The study of nature with a view to works is engaged in by the mechanic, the mathematician, the physician, the alchemist, and the magician; but by all (as things now are) with slight endeavour and scanty success.
VI.
It would be an unsound fancy and self-contradictory to expect that things which have never yet been done can be done except by means which have never yet been tried.
VII.
The productions of the mind and hand seem very numerous in books and manufactures. But all this variety lies in an exquisite subtlety and derivations from a few things already known; not in the number of axioms.
VIII.
Moreover the works already known are due to chance and experiment rather than to sciences; for the sciences we now possess are merely systems for the nice ordering and setting forth of things already invented; not methods of invention or directions for new works.
IX.
The cause and root of nearly all evils in the sciences is this -- that while we falsely admire and extol the powers of the human mind we neglect to seek for its true helps.
X.
The subtlety of nature is greater many times over than the subtlety of the senses and understanding; so that all those specious meditations, speculations, and glosses in which men indulge are quite from the purpose, only there is no one by to observe it.
XI.
As the sciences which we now have do not help us in finding out new works, so neither does the logic which we now have help us in finding out new sciences.
XII.
The logic now in use serves rather to fix and give stability to the errors which have their foundation in commonly received notions than to help the search after truth. So it does more harm than good.
XIII.
[...] Read more
poem by Sir Francis Bacon
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Mystery's Mirror Rhyme
Mirror's muse reflects
as mirror recollects
on mirror which reflects
upon mirror which reflects
upon mystery of light.
Mirror thus protects
mirror which projects
reflection which reflects
on mirror which expects
historical insight.
Mirror interjects
texts, textures and contexts
which chance elects, selects
then checks and double checks
for infinite delight.
Mirror's light directs
life's mysteries, neglects
naught it interconnects
as cause links to effects
exciting to invite.
Mirror then detects
mirror which deflects
mirror which rejects
history of night
when mirror role reflects
Mirror thus connects,
collects and self respects,
perpetually perfects
externals it bedecks
with inner meanings' might.
poem by Jonathan Robin
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The Parable Of The Blind
This horrible but superb painting
the parable of the blind
without a red
in the composition shows a group
of beggars leading
each other diagonally downward
across the canvas
from one side
to stumble finally into a bog
where the picture
and the composition ends back
of which no seeing man
is represented the unshaven
features of the des-
titute with their few
pitiful possessions a basin
to wash in a peasant
cottage is seen and a church spire
the faces are raised
as toward the light
there is no detail extraneous
to the composition one
follows the others stick in
hand triumphant to disaster
poem by William Carlos Williams
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Otho The Great - Act V
SCENE I.
A part of the Forest.
Enter CONRAD and AURANTHE.
Auranthe. Go no further; not a step more; thou art
A master-plague in the midst of miseries.
Go I fear thee. I tremble every limb,
Who never shook before. There's moody death
In thy resolved looks Yes, I could kneel
To pray thee far away. Conrad, go, go
There! yonder underneath the boughs I see
Our horses!
Conrad. Aye, and the man.
Auranthe. Yes, he is there.
Go, go, no blood, no blood; go, gentle Conrad!
Conrad. Farewell!
Auranthe. Farewell, for this Heaven pardon you.
[Exit AURANTHE,
Conrad. If he survive one hour, then may I die
In unimagined tortures or breathe through
A long life in the foulest sink of the world!
He dies 'tis well she do not advertise
The caitiff of the cold steel at his back.
[Exit CONRAD.
Enter LUDOLPH and PAGE.
Ludolph. Miss'd the way, boy, say not that on your peril!
Page. Indeed, indeed I cannot trace them further.
Ludolph. Must I stop here? Here solitary die?
Stifled beneath the thick oppressive shade
Of these dull boughs, this oven of dark thickets,
Silent, without revenge? pshaw! bitter end,
A bitter death, a suffocating death,
A gnawing silent deadly, quiet death!
Escaped? fled? vanish'd? melted into air?
She's gone! I cannot clutch her! no revenge!
A muffled death, ensnar'd in horrid silence!
Suck'd to my grave amid a dreamy calm!
O, where is that illustrious noise of war,
To smother up this sound of labouring breath,
This rustle of the trees!
[AURANTHE shrieks at a distance.
Page. My Lord, a noise!
This way hark!
Ludolph. Yes, yes! A hope! A music!
A glorious clamour! How I live again! [Exeunt.
SCENE II. Another part of the Forest,
Enter ALBERT (wounded).
Albert. O for enough life to support me on
To Otho's feet
[...] Read more
poem by John Keats
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Thespis: Act II
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
GODS
Jupiter, Aged Diety
Apollo, Aged Diety
Mars, Aged Diety
Diana, Aged Diety
Mercury
THESPIANS
Thespis
Sillimon
TimidonTipseion
Preposteros
Stupidas
Sparkeio n
Nicemis
Pretteia
Daphne
Cymon
ACT II - The same Scene, with the Ruins Restored
SCENE-the same scene as in Act I with the exception that in place
of the ruins that filled the foreground of the stage, the
interior of a magnificent temple is seen showing the background
of the scene of Act I, through the columns of the portico at the
back. High throne. L.U.E. Low seats below it. All the substitute
gods and goddesses [that is to say, Thespians] are discovered
grouped in picturesque attitudes about the stage, eating and
drinking, and smoking and singing the following verses.
CHO. Of all symposia
The best by half
Upon Olympus, here await us.
We eat ambrosia.
And nectar quaff,
It cheers but don't inebriate us.
We know the fallacies,
Of human food
So please to pass Olympian rosy,
We built up palaces,
Where ruins stood,
And find them much more snug and cosy.
SILL. To work and think, my dear,
Up here would be,
[...] Read more
poem by William Schwenck Gilbert
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With No Escapes From It To Exit
There is no other way to address truth,
But to be prepared to be stripped naked...
Bare,
With the exposing of every blemish.
Since truth is not seeking to be impressed.
Truth is on a mission to uncover honesty.
And many are still unbelieving,
The depth of which truth sees without explanation...
To deceive what is already revealed.
When truth is in one's presence and is fully awakened,
With no escapes from it to exit...
Foolish is the time taken to charade in masquerade,
To evade it with a wasting away of one's time.
With no escapes from it to exit,
Truth...
Is very effective!
With no escaping undetected,
Truth...
Is very effective.
Once fed truth it manifests.
And truth will not be neglected...
To reject!
With no escapes from it to exit,
Truth...
Is very effective!
With no escaping undetected,
Truth...
Is very effective.
Once fed truth it manifests.
And truth will not be neglected...
To reject!
With no escapes from it to exit,
Truth...
Is very effective!
With no escapes from it to exit,
Truth...
Is very effective!
And truth will not be neglected...
To reject!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Study In Orange And White
I knew that James Whistler was part of the Paris scene,
but I was still surprised when I found the painting
of his mother at the Musée d'Orsay
among all the colored dots and mobile brushstrokes
of the French Impressionists.
And I was surprised to notice
after a few minutes of benign staring,
how that woman, stark in profile
and fixed forever in her chair,
began to resemble my own ancient mother
who was now fixed forever in the stars, the air, the earth.
You can understand why he titled the painting
"Arrangement in Gray and Black"
instead of what everyone naturally calls it,
but afterward, as I walked along the river bank,
I imagined how it might have broken
the woman's heart to be demoted from mother
to a mere composition, a study in colorlessness.
As the summer couples leaned into each other
along the quay and the wide, low-slung boats
full of spectators slid up and down the Seine
between the carved stone bridges
and their watery reflections,
I thought: how ridiculous, how off-base.
It would be like Botticelli calling "The Birth of Venus"
"Composition in Blue, Ochre, Green, and Pink,"
or the other way around
like Rothko titling one of his sandwiches of color
"Fishing Boats Leaving Falmouth Harbor at Dawn."
Or, as I scanned the menu at the cafe
where I now had come to rest,
it would be like painting something laughable,
like a chef turning on a spit
over a blazing fire in front of an audience of ducks
and calling it "Study in Orange and White."
But by that time, a waiter had appeared
with my glass of Pernod and a clear pitcher of water,
and I sat there thinking of nothing
but the women and men passing by--
mothers and sons walking their small fragile dogs--
and about myself,
a kind of composition in blue and khaki,
and, now that I had poured
some water into the glass, milky-green.
poem by Billy Collins
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An unjust composition never fails to contain error and falsehood. Therefore an unjust connection of ideas is not derived from nature, but from the imperfect composition of man. Misconnection of ideas is the same as misjudging, and has no positive existence, being merely a creature of the imagination; but nature and truth are real and uniform; and the rational mind by reasoning, discerns the uniformity, and is thereby enabled to make a just composition of ideas, which will stand the test of truth. But the fantastical illuminations of the credulous and superstitious part of mankind, proceed from weakness, and as far as they take place in the world subvert the religion of REASON, NATURE and TRUTH.
quote by Ethan Allen
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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A Sequence of Sonnets on the Death of Robert Browning
I1.
The clearest eyes in all the world they read
.
With sense more keen and spirit of sight more true
.
Than burns and thrills in sunrise, when the dew
.
Flames, and absorbs the glory round it shed,
.
As they the light of ages quick and dead,
.
Closed now, forsake us: yet the shaft that slew
.
Can slay not one of all the works we knew,
.
Nor death discrown that many-laurelled head.
.
The works of words whose life seems lightning wrought,
.
And moulded of unconquerable thought,
.
And quickened with imperishable flame,
.
Stand fast and shine and smile, assured that nought
.
May fade of all their myriad-moulded fame,
.
Nor England's memory clasp not Browning's name.[Composition Date:] December 13, 1889.II2.
Death, what hast thou to do with one for whom
.
Time is not lord, but servant? What least part
.
Of all the fire that fed his living heart,
.
Of all the light more keen that sundawn's bloom
.
That lit and led his spirit, strong as doom
.
And bright as hope, can aught thy breath may dart
.
Quench? Nay, thou knowest he knew thee what thou art,
.
A shadow born of terror's barren womb,
.
That brings not forth save shadows. What art thou,
[...] Read more
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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Nobody Home
Don't run too fast
Like a shot from a gun
Don't jump too high
And knock out the sun
Don't stray too far
Out on your own
When you finally come knocking
When you finally come knocking
There'll be nobody home
Nobody home
Don't pull too hard
Like a kite in the wind
You'll break the string
When I reel you in
Don't take off flying
All on your own
When you finally come knocking
When you finally come knocking
There'll be nobody home
Nobody home
You say you're feeling locked inside
Stuck inside to stay
You wanna fly away
There's nothing I can do
To help you make your play
Make your getaway
Don't dream too wild
And shoot for the moon
Don't ride your heart
Like a balloon
Don't blow away
To places unknown
Cause when you finally coming knocking
When you finally come knocking
There'll be nobody home
Nobody home
Don't run too fast
Like a shot from a gun
Don't jump too high
And knock out the sun
Don't stray too far
Out on your own
Cause when you finally come knocking
When you finally come knocking
there'll be nobody home
Nobody home
[...] Read more
song performed by Heart from Heart
Added by Lucian Velea
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The present is a present, so be present
Always, behind the known,
the greater unknown…
behind the tedious Latin translation,
the struggle to find French elegance in French -
the private joys of the translator…
that rare intimacy, as a soul to soul
across the divides of language…
‘Laetus in praesens’ says Marsilio Ficino
in his Renaissance colloquial Latin
written up around the wall
of his Academy, such as it was…
The translator – half mechanical,
half philosopher, scribbles down
‘Rejoice in the present’..
and presently, pauses, contemplates…
Is it, was it, as easy as all that?
Sounds good, but is it practical?
In another age, Eckhart Tolle will expound
The Power Of Now – how joy
will follow presence, as the night the day…
The translator, cautious in his guidelines,
contemplates ‘Be present, rejoicing..’
as a poetic alternative… thus satisfying
philosophy as the study of causes…
checks various manuscripts; ah,
it’s written in one as ‘impraesens’…
almost adjectival; as a necessary state:
‘rejoice, being present’ then, perhaps?
Behind the shoulder of the translator,
stands as always, just as does
the unknown at the shoulder of the known,
(not quite nudging, sometimes, the writing arm)
the author…so close, this present moment,
is his presence…
the translator, gifted with a present by the wise,
the presence of the wise,
is wholly present; and that almost
imperceptible joy – recognised only
by the absence of all other things –
which the wise call bliss,
steals like a blessing
from the eternal, timeless, unblemished,
[...] Read more
poem by Michael Shepherd
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The World's Address
I know you deceived me, couldn't sleep last night
Now my tear stains on the wall reflect an ugly sight
I can see your secrets
No need to confess
Everyone looks naked when you know the world's address
The world's address
A place that's worn
A sad pun that reflects a sadder mess
I'll repeat it for those who may not have already guessed
The world's address
Life's parade of fashion just leaves me depressed
Under every garment i can see the world's address
Call the men of science and let them hear this song
Tell them albert einstein and copernicus were wrong
The world's address
A place that's worn
A sad pun that reflects a sadder mess
I'll repeat it for those who may not have already guessed
The world's address
Call the men of science and let them hear this song
Tell them albert einstein and copernicus were wrong
The world's address
A place that's worn
A sad pun that reflects a sadder mess
I'll repeat it for those who may not have already guessed
The world's address
A place that's worn
A sad pun that reflects a sadder mess
I'll say it one more time for those who may not have already guessed
The world's address
song performed by They Might Be Giants
Added by Lucian Velea
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My dream reflects our love
My dream reflects our love
Don't know why this is happening
Fortune causes many things
You hugged me while I was sleeping
Conceding to a flash of sleep
I fell in…., into the deep
fraction of your ocean
Actions are in motion
My dream reflects our love
and I can't wrestle my desire
thirst ignites a blazing fire
for the want of you near
you nourish my soul my dear
yet it's all just insane
it's flaw to blame
Longing the squashy caress
you feel with grace
your lips red and moist
kiss you I must for I have no other choice
My dream reflects our love
A life span or so it seems
and if this love is so imposing and grand
it ought to be the masterplan.
The hint from above.
My dream reflects our love
poem by Nikhil Chandwani
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A Bad Night
DRAMATIS PERSONAE.
VILLIAM _a Sen_
NEEDLESON _a Sidniduc_
SMILER _a Scheister_
KI-YI _a Trader_
GRIMGHAST _a Spader_
SARALTHIA _a Love-lorn Nymph_
NELLIBRAC _a Sweetun_
A BODY; A GHOST; AN UNMENTIONABLE THING; SKULLS;
HOODOOS; ETC.
_Scene_-a Cemetery in San Francisco.
_Saralthia, Nellibrac, Grimghast._
SARALTHIA:
The red half-moon is dipping to the west,
And the cold fog invades the sleeping land.
Lo! how the grinning skulls in the level light
Litter the place! Methinks that every skull
Is a most lifelike portrait of my Sen,
Drawn by the hand of Death; each fleshless pate,
Cursed with a ghastly grin to eyes unrubbed
With love's magnetic ointment, seems to mine
To smile an amiable smile like his
Whose amiable smile I-I alone
Am able to distinguish from his leer!
See how the gathering coyotes flit
Through the lit spaces, or with burning eyes
Star the black shadows with a steadfast gaze!
About my feet the poddy toads at play,
Bulbously comfortable, try to hop,
And tumble clumsily with all their warts;
While pranking lizards, sliding up and down
My limbs, as they were public roads, impart
A singularly interesting chill.
The circumstance and passion of the time,
The cast and manner of the place-the spirit
Of this confederate environment,
Command the rights we come to celebrate
Obedient to the Inspired Hag-
The seventh daughter of the seventh daughter,
Who rules all destinies from Minna street,
A dollar a destiny. Here at this grave,
Which for my purposes thou, Jack of Spades-
_(To Grimghast_)
[...] Read more
poem by Ambrose Bierce
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I Saw It Myself (Short Verse Drama)
Dramatis Personae: Adrian, his wife Ester, his sisters Rebecca and Johanna, his mother Elizabeth, the high priest Chiapas, the disciple Simon Peter, the disciple John, Mary Magdalene, worshipers, priests, two angels and Jesus Christ.
Act I
Scene I.- Adrian’s house in Jerusalem. Adrian has just returned home after a business journey in Galilee, in time to attend the Passover feast. He sits at the table with his wife Ester and his sisters, Rebecca and Johanna. It’s just before sunset on the Friday afternoon.
Adrian. (Somewhat puzzled) Strange things are happening,
some say demons dwell upon the earth,
others angelic beings, miracles take place
and all of this when they had put a man to death,
had crucified a criminal. Everybody knows
the cross is used for degenerates only!
Rebecca. (With a pleasant voice) Such harsh words used,
for a good, a great man brother?
They say that without charge
he healed the sick, brought back sight,
cured leprosy, even made some more food,
from a few fishes and loafs of bread…
Adrian. (Somewhat harsh) They say many things!
That he rode into Jerusalem
to be crowned as the new king,
was a rebel against the state,
even claimed to be
the very Son of God,
now that is blasphemy
if there is no truth to it!
Johanna. I met him once.
He’s not the man
that you make him, brother.
There was a strange tranquilly to Him.
Some would say a divine presence,
while He spoke of love that is selfless,
visited the sick, the poor
and even the destitute, even harlots.
Adrian. (Looks up) There you have it!
Harlots! Tax collecting thieves!
A man is know by his friends,
or so they say and probably
there is some truth to it.
Ester. Husband, do not be so quick to judge.
I have seen Him myself, have seen
Roman soldiers marching Him to the hill
to take His life, with a angry crowd
following and mocking Him.
[...] Read more
poem by Gert Strydom
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Otho The Great - Act III
SCENE I.
The Country.
Enter ALBERT.
Albert. O that the earth were empty, as when Cain
Had no perplexity to hide his head!
Or that the sword of some brave enemy
Had put a sudden stop to my hot breath,
And hurl'd me down the illimitable gulph
Of times past, unremember'd! Better so
Than thus fast-limed in a cursed snare,
The white limbs of a wanton. This the end
Of an aspiring life! My boyhood past
In feud with wolves and bears, when no eye saw
The solitary warfare, fought for love
Of honour 'mid the growling wilderness.
My sturdier youth, maturing to the sword,
Won by the syren-trumpets, and the ring
Of shields upon the pavement, when bright-mail'd
Henry the Fowler pass'd the streets of Prague,
Was't to this end I louted and became
The menial of Mars, and held a spear
Sway'd by command, as corn is by the wind?
Is it for this, I now am lifted up
By Europe's throned Emperor, to see
My honour be my executioner,
My love of fame, my prided honesty
Put to the torture for confessional?
Then the damn'd crime of blurting to the world
A woman's secret! Though a fiend she be,
Too tender of my ignominious life;
But then to wrong the generous Emperor
In such a searching point, were to give up
My soul for foot-ball at Hell's holiday!
I must confess, and cut my throat, to-day?
To-morrow? Ho! some wine!
Enter SIGIFRED.
Sigifred. A fine humour
Albert. Who goes there? Count Sigifred? Ha! Ha!
Sigifred. What, man, do you mistake the hollow sky
For a throng 'd tavern, and these stubbed trees
For old serge hangings, me, your humble friend,
For a poor waiter? Why, man, how you stare!
What gipsies have you been carousing with?
No, no more wine; methinks you've had enough.
Albert. You well may laugh and banter. What a fool
An injury may make of a staid man!
You shall know all anon.
Sigifred. Some tavern brawl?
Albert. 'Twas with some people out of common reach;
Revenge is difficult.
[...] Read more
poem by John Keats
Added by Poetry Lover
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