<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=342721" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>An Obituarian</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Death-poet Pickering sat at his desk,<br>Wrapped in appropriate gloom;<br>His posture was pensive and picturesque,<br>Like a raven charming a tomb.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Enter a party a-drinking the cup<br>Of sorrow-and likewise of woe:<br>'Some harrowing poetry, Mister, whack up,<br>All wrote in the key of O.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'For the angels has called my old woman hence<br>From the strife (where she fit mighty free).<br>It's a nickel a line? Cond-n the expense!<br>For wealth is now little to me.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The Bard of Mortality looked him through<br>In the piercingest sort of a way:<br>'It is much to me though it's little to you<br>I've _taken_ a wife to-day.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">So he twisted the tail of his mental cow<br>And made her give down her flow.<br>The grief of that bard was long-winded, somehow-<br>There was reams and reamses of woe.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The widower man which had buried his wife<br>Grew lily-like round each gill,<br>For she turned in her grave and came back to life<br>Then he cruel ignored the bill!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Then Sorrow she opened her gates a-wide,<br>As likewise did also Woe,<br>And the death-poet's song, as is heard inside,<br>Is sang in the key of O.</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=342721" data-title="An Obituarian de Ambrose Bierce" data-description="Death-poet Pickering sat at his desk, Wrapped in appropriate gloom; His posture was pensive and picturesque, Like a raven charming a tomb. Enter a party a-drinking the cup Of sorrow-and likewise of woe: 'Some harrowing poetry, Mister, whack up, A..."></div> </div> </div>

solid border dashed border dotted border double border groove border ridge border inset border outset border no border blue green red purple cyan gold silver black