Click in the field, then press CTRL+C to copy the HTML code
<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=342692" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>A Wreath Of Immortelles</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">LORING PICKERING</div><div style="margin:10px 0">_(After Pope)_</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Here rests a writer, great but not immense,<br>Born destitute of feeling and of sense.<br>No power he but o'er his brain desired<br>How not to suffer it to be inspired.<br>Ideas unto him were all unknown,<br>Proud of the words which, only, were his own.<br>So unreflecting, so confused his mind,<br>Torpid in error, indolently blind,<br>A fever Heaven, to quicken him, applied,<br>But, rather than revive, the sluggard died.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">* * * * *</div><div style="margin:10px 0">A WATER-PIRATE</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Pause, stranger-whence you lightly tread<br>Bill Carr's immoral part has fled.<br>For him no heart of woman burned,<br>But all the rivers' heads he turned.<br>Alas! he now lifts up his eyes<br>In torment and for water cries,<br>Entreating that he may procure<br>One dropp to cool his parched McClure!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">* * * * *</div><div style="margin:10px 0">C.P. BERRY</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Here's crowbait!-ravens, too, and daws<br>Flock hither to advance their caws,<br>And, with a sudden courage armed,<br>Devour the foe who once alarmed-<br>In life and death a fair deceit:<br>Nor strong to harm nor good to eat.<br>King bogey of the scarecrow host,<br>When known the least affrighting most,<br>Though light his hand (his mind was dark)<br>He left on earth a straw Berry mark.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">* * * * *</div><div style="margin:10px 0">THE REV. JOSEPH</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>He preached that sickness he could floor<br>By prayer and by commanding;<br>When sick himself he sent for four<br>Physicians in good standing.<br>He was struck dead despite their care,<br>For, fearing their dissension,<br>He secretly put up a prayer,<br>Thus drawing God's attention.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">* * * * *</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Cynic perforce from studying mankind<br>In the false volume of his single mind,<br>He damned his fellows for his own unworth,<br>And, bad himself, thought nothing good on earth.<br>Yet, still so judging and so erring still,<br>Observing well, but understanding ill,<br>His learning all was got by dint of sight,<br>And what he learned by day he lost by night.<br>When hired to flatter he would never cease<br>Till those who'd paid for praises paid for peace.<br>Not wholly miser and but half a knave,<br>He yearned to squander but he lived to save,<br>And did not, for he could not, cheat the grave.<br>_Hic jacet_ Pixley, scribe and muleteer:<br>Step lightly, stranger, anywhere but here.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">* * * * *</div><div style="margin:10px 0">McAllister, of talents rich and rare,<br>Lies at this spot at finish of his race.<br>Alike to him if it is here or there:<br>The one spot that he cared for was the ace.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">* * * * *</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Here lies Joseph Redding, who gave us the catfish.<br>He dined upon every fish except that fish.<br>'Twas touching to hear him expounding his fad<br>With a heart full of zeal and a mouth full of shad.<br>The catfish miaowed with unspeakable woe<br>When Death, the lone fisherman, landed their Jo.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">* * * * *</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Judge Sawyer, whom in vain the people tried<br>To push from power, here is laid aside.<br>Death only from the bench could ever start<br>The sluggish load of his immortal part.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">* * * * *</div><div style="margin:10px 0">John Irish went, one luckless day,<br>To loaf and fish at San Jose.<br>He got no loaf, he got no fish:<br>They brained him with an empty dish!<br>They laid him in this place asleep-<br>O come, ye crocodiles, and weep.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">* * * * *</div><div style="margin:10px 0">In Sacramento City here<br>This wooden monument we rear<br>In memory of Dr. May,<br>Whose smile even Death could not allay.<br>He's buried, Heaven alone knows where,<br>And only the hyenas care;<br>This May-pole merely marks the spot<br>Where, ere the wretch began to rot,<br>Fame's trumpet, with its brazen bray,<br>Bawled; 'Who (and why) was Dr. May?'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">* * * * *</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Dennis Spencer's mortal coil<br>Here is laid away to spoil-<br>Great riparian, who said<br>Not a stream should leave its bed.<br>Now his soul would like a river<br>Turned upon its parching liver.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">* * * * *</div><div style="margin:10px 0">For those this mausoleum is erected<br>Who Stanford to the Upper House elected.<br>Their luck is less or their promotion slower,<br>For, dead, they were elected to the Lower.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">* * * * *</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Beneath this stone lies Reuben Lloyd,<br>Of breath deprived, of sense devoid.<br>The Templars' Captain-General, he<br>So formidable seemed to be,<br>That had he not been on his back<br>Death ne'er had ventured to attack.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">* * * * *</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Here lies Barnes in all his glory-<br>Master he of oratOry.<br>When he died the people weeping,<br>(For they thought him only sleeping)<br>Cried: 'Although he now is quiet<br>And his tongue is not a riot,<br>Soon, the spell that binds him breaking,<br>He a motion will be making.<br>Then, alas, he'll rise and speak<br>In support of it a week.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">* * * * *</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Rash mortal! stay thy feet and look around<br>This vacant tomb as yet is holy ground;<br>But soon, alas! Jim Fair will occupy<br>These premises-then, holiness, good-bye!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">* * * * *</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Here Salomon's body reposes;<br>Bring roses, ye rebels, bring roses.<br>Set all of your drumsticks a-rolling,<br>Discretion and Valor extrolling:<br>Discretion-he always retreated<br>And Valor-the dead he defeated.<br>Brings roses, ye loyal, bring roses:<br>As patriot here he re-poses.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">* * * * *</div><div style="margin:10px 0">When Waterman ended his bright career<br>He left his wet name to history here.<br>To carry it with him he did not care:<br>'Twould tantalize spirits of statesmen There.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">* * * * *</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Here lie the remains of Fred Emerson Brooks,<br>A poet, as every one knew by his looks<br>Who hadn't unluckily met with his books.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">On civic occasions he sprang to the fore<br>With poems consisting of stanzas three score.<br>The men whom they deafened enjoyed them the more.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Of reason his fantasy knew not the check:<br>All forms of inharmony came at his beck.<br>The weight of his ignorance fractured his neck.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">In this peaceful spot, so the grave-diggers say,<br>With pen, ink and paper they laid him away-<br>The Poet-elect of the Judgment Day.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">* * * * *</div><div style="margin:10px 0">George Perry here lies stiff and stark,<br>With stone at foot and stone at head.<br>His heart was dark, his mind was dark<br>'Ignorant ass!' the people said.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Not ignorant but skilled, alas,<br>In all the secrets of his trade:<br>He knew more ways to be an ass<br>Than any ass that ever brayed.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">* * * * *</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Here lies the last of Deacon Fitch,<br>Whose business was to melt the pitch.<br>Convenient to this sacred spot<br>Lies Sammy, who applied it, hot.<br>'Tis hard-so much alike they smell</div><div style="margin:10px 0">One's grave from t'other's grave to tell,<br>But when his tomb the Deacon's burst<br>(Of two he'll always be the first)<br>He'll see by studying the stones<br>That he's obtained his proper bones,<br>Then, seeking Sammy's vault, unlock it,<br>And put that person in his pocket.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">* * * * *</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Beneath this stone O'Donnell's tongue's at rest<br>Our noses by his spirit still addressed.<br>Living or dead, he's equally Satanic<br>His noise a terror and his smell a panic.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">* * * * *</div><div style="margin:10px 0">When Gabriel blows a dreadful blast<br>And swears that Time's forever past,<br>Days, weeks, months, years all one at last,<br>Then Asa Fiske, laid here, distressed,<br>Will beat (and skin his hand) his breast:<br>There'll be no rate of interest!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">* * * * *</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Step lightly, stranger: here Jerome B. Cox<br>Is for the second time in a bad box.<br>He killed a man-the labor party rose<br>And showed him by its love how killing goes.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">* * * * *</div><div style="margin:10px 0">When Vrooman here lay down to sleep,<br>The other dead awoke to weep.<br>'Since he no longer lives,' they said<br>'Small honor comes of being dead.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">* * * * *</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Here Porter Ashe is laid to rest<br>Green grows the grass upon his breast.<br>This patron of the turf, I vow,<br>Ne'er served it half so well as now.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">* * * * *</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Like a cold fish escaping from its tank,<br>Hence fled the soul of Joe Russel, crank.<br>He cried: 'Cold water!' roaring like a beast.<br>'Twas thrown upon him and the music ceased.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">* * * * *</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Here Estee rests. He shook a basket,<br>When, like a jewel from its casket,<br>Fell Felton out. Said Estee, shouting<br>With mirth; 'I've given you an outing.'<br>Then told him to go back. He wouldn't.<br>Then tried to _put_ him back. He couldn't.<br>So Estee died (his blood congealing<br>In Felton's growing shadow) squealing.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">* * * * *</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Mourn here for one Bruner, called Elwood.<br>He doesn't-he never did-smell good<br>To noses of critics and scholars.<br>If now he'd an office to sell could<br>He sell it? O, no-where (in Hell) could<br>He find a cool four hundred dollars?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">* * * * *</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Here Stanford lies, who thought it odd<br>That he should go to meet his God.<br>He looked, until his eyes grew dim,<br>For God to hasten to meet him.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Ambrose+Bierce">Ambrose Bierce</a><div class=q>
<img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share">
<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=342692" data-title="A Wreath Of Immortelles de Ambrose Bierce" data-description="LORING PICKERING

_(After Pope)_


Here rests a writer, great but not immense,
Born destitute of feeling and of sense.
No power he but o'er his brain desired
How not to suffer it to be inspired.
Ideas unto him were all unknown,
Proud of the words ..."></div>
</div>
</div>