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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=116222" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Sibrandus Schafnaburgensis</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Plague take all your pedants, say I!<br> He who wrote what I hold in my hand,<br>Centuries back was so good as to die,<br> Leaving this rubbish to cumber the land;<br>This, that was a book in its time,<br> Printed on paper and bound in leather,<br>Last month in the white of a matin-prime<br> Just when the birds sang all together.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> II</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Into the garden I brought it to read,<br> And under the arbute and laurustine<br>Read it, so help me grace in my need,<br> From title-page to closing line.<br>Chapter on chapter did I count,<br> As a curious traveller counts Stonehenge;<br>Added up the mortal amount;<br> And then proceeded to my revenge.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> III</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Yonder's a plum-tree with a crevice<br> An owl would build in, were he but sage;<br>For a lap of moss, like a fine pont-levis<br> In a castle of the Middle Age,<br>Joins to a lip of gum, pure amber;<br> When he'd be private, there might he spend<br>Hours alone in his lady's chamber:<br> Into this crevice I dropped our friend.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> IV</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Splash, went he, as under he ducked,<br> —At the bottom, I knew, rain-drippings stagnate:<br>Next, a handful of blosoms I plucked<br> To bury him with, my bookshelf's magnate;<br>Then I went in-doors, brought out a loaf,<br> Half a cheese, and a bottle of CHablis;<br>Lay on the grass and forgot the oaf<br> Over a jolly chapter of Rabelais.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> V</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Now, this morning, betwixt the moss<br> And gum that locked our friend in limbo,<br>A spider had spun his web across,<br> And sat in the midst with arms akimbo:<br>So, I took pity, for learning's sake,<br> And, de profundis, accentibus lætis,<br>Cantate! quoth I, as I got a rake;<br> And up I fished his delectable treatise.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> VI</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Here you have it, dry in the sun,<br> With all the binding all of a blister,<br>And great blue spots where the ink has run,<br> And reddish streaks that wink and glister<br>O'er the page so beautifully yellow:<br> Oh, well have the droppings played their tricks!<br>Did he guess how toadstools grow, this fellow?<br> Here's one stuck in his chapter six!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> VII</div><div style="margin:10px 0">How did he like it when the live creatures<br> Tickled and toused and browsed him all over,<br>And worm, slug, eft, with serious features,<br> Came in, each one, for his right of trover?<br>—When the water-beetle with great blind deaf face<br> Made of her eggs the stately deposit<br>And the newt borrowewd just so much of the preface<br> As tiled in the top of his black wife's closet?</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> VIII</div><div style="margin:10px 0">All that life and fun and romping<br> All that frisking and twisting and coupling,<br>While slowly our poor friend's leaves were swamping<br> And clasps were cracking and covers suppling!<br>As if you had carried sour John Knox<br> To the play-house at Paris, Vienna or Munich,<br>Fastened him into a front-row box,<br> And danced off the ballet with trousers and tunic.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> IX</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Come, old martyr! What torment enough is it?<br> Back to my room shall you take your sweet self.<br>Good-bye, mother-beetle; husband-eft sufficit!<br> See the snug niche I have made on my shelf!<br>A.'s book shall prop you up, B.'s shall cover you,<br> Here's C. to be grave with, or D. to be Gay,<br>And with E. on each side, and F. right over you,<br> Dry-rot at ease till the Judgment-day!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Robert+Browning">Robert Browning</a> from <i>Garden Fancies</i><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=116222" data-title="Sibrandus Schafnaburgensis de Robert Browning" data-description="I/Plague take all your pedants, say I!/ He who wrote what I hold in my hand,/Centuries back was so good as to die,/ Leaving this rubbish to cumber the land;/This, that was a book in its time,/ Printed on paper and bound in leather,/Last month in t..."></div>
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