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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=355298" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Ode--'On A Distant Prospect' Of Making A Fortune</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Now the 'rosy morn appearing'<br>Floods with light the dazzled heaven;<br>And the schoolboy groans on hearing<br>That eternal clock strike seven:-<br>Now the waggoner is driving<br>Towards the fields his clattering wain;<br>Now the bluebottle, reviving,<br>Buzzes down his native pane.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But to me the morn is hateful:<br>Wearily I stretch my legs,<br>Dress, and settle to my plateful<br>Of (perhaps inferior) eggs.<br>Yesterday Miss Crump, by message,<br>Mentioned 'rent,' which 'p'raps I'd pay;'<br>And I have a dismal presage<br>That she'll call, herself, to-day.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Once, I breakfasted off rosewood,<br>Smoked through silver-mounted pipes -<br>Then how my patrician nose would<br>Turn up at the thought of 'swipes!'<br>Ale,--occasionally claret, -<br>Graced my luncheon then:- and now<br>I drink porter in a garret,<br>To be paid for heaven knows how.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">When the evening shades are deepened,<br>And I doff my hat and gloves,<br>No sweet bird is there to 'cheep and<br>Twitter twenty million loves:'<br>No dark-ringleted canaries<br>Sing to me of 'hungry foam;'<br>No imaginary 'Marys'<br>Call fictitious 'cattle home.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Araminta, sweetest, fairest!<br>Solace once of every ill!<br>How I wonder if thou bearest<br>Mivins in remembrance still!<br>If that Friday night is banished<br>Yet from that retentive mind,<br>When the others somehow vanished,<br>And we two were left behind:-</div><div style="margin:10px 0">When in accents low, yet thrilling,<br>I did all my love declare;<br>Mentioned that I'd not a shilling -<br>Hinted that we need not care:<br>And complacently you listened<br>To my somewhat long address -<br>(Listening, at the same time, isn't<br>Quite the same as saying Yes).</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Once, a happy child, I carolled<br>O'er green lawns the whole day through,<br>Not unpleasingly apparelled<br>In a tightish suit of blue:-<br>What a change has now passed o'er me!<br>Now with what dismay I see<br>Every rising morn before me!<br>Goodness gracious, patience me!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And I'll prowl, a moodier Lara,<br>Through the world, as prowls the bat,<br>And habitually wear a<br>Cypress wreath around my hat:<br>And when Death snuffs out the taper<br>Of my Life, (as soon he must),<br>I'll send up to every paper,<br>'Died, T. Mivins; of disgust.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Charles+Stuart+Calverley">Charles Stuart Calverley</a><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=355298" data-title="Ode--'On A Distant Prospect' Of Making A Fortune de Charles Stuart Calverley" data-description="Now the 'rosy morn appearing'
Floods with light the dazzled heaven;
And the schoolboy groans on hearing
That eternal clock strike seven:-
Now the waggoner is driving
Towards the fields his clattering wain;
Now the bluebottle, reviving,
Buzzes down..."></div>
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