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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=408362" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Ned the Larrikin</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">A SONG that is bitter with grief—a ballad as pale as the light<br>That comes with the fall of the leaf, I sing to the shadows to-night.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The laugh on the lyrical lips is sadder than laughter of ghosts<br>Chained back in the pits of eclipse by wailing unnameable coasts.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I gathered this wreath at the close of day that was dripping with dew;<br>The blossom you take for a rose was plucked from the branch of a yew.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The flower you fancy is sweet has black in the place of the red;<br>For this is a song of the street—the ballad of larrikin Ned.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">He stands at the door of the sink that gapes like a fissure of death:<br>The face of him fiery with drink, the flame of its fume in his breath.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">He thrives in the sickening scenes that the devil has under his ban;<br>A rascal not out of his teens with the voice of a vicious old man.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">A blossom of blackness, indeed—of Satan a sinister fruit!<br>Far better the centipede’s seed—the spawn of the adder or newt.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Than terror of talon or fang this imp of the alleys is worse:<br>His speech is a poisonous slang—his phrases are coloured with curse.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The prison, the shackles, and chain are nothing to him and his type:<br>He sings in the shadow of pain, and laughs at the impotent stripe.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">There under the walls of the gaols the half of his life has been passed.<br>He was born in the bosom of bale—he will go to the gallows at last.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">No angel in Paradise kneels for him at the feet of the Lord;<br>A Nemesis follows his heels in the flame of a sinister sword.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The sins of his fathers have brought this bitterness into his days—<br>His life is accounted as naught; his soul is a brand for the blaze.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Did ever his countenance change? Did ever a moment supreme<br>Illumine his face with a strange ineffably beautiful dream?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Before he was caught in the breach—in the pits of iniquity grim,<br>Did ever the Deity reach the hand of a Father to him?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Behold, it is folly to say the evil was born in the blood;<br>The rose that is cankered to-day was once an immaculate bud!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">There might have been blossom and fruit—a harvest exceedingly fair,<br>Instead of the venomous root, and flowers that startle and scare.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The burden—the burden is their’s who, watching this garden about,<br>Assisted the thistle and tares, and stamped the divinity out!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">A growth like the larrikin Ned—a brutal unqualified clod,<br>Is what ye are helping who’d tread on the necks of the prophets of God.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">No more than a damnable weed ye water and foster, ye fools,<br>Whose aim is to banish indeed the beautiful Christ from the schools.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The merciful, wonderful light of the seraph Religion behold<br>These evil ones shut from the sight of the children who weep in the cold!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But verily trouble shall fall on such, and their portion shall be<br>A harvest of hyssop and gall, and sorrow as wild as the sea.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">For the rose of a radiant star is over the hills of the East,<br>And the fathers are heartened for war—the prophet, the Saint, and the priest.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">For a spirit of Deity makes the holy heirophants strong;<br>And a morning of majesty breaks, and blossoms in colour and song.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Yea, now, by the altars august the elders are shining supreme;<br>And brittle and barren as dust is the spiritless secular dream.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">It’s life as a vapour shall end as a fog in the fall of the year;<br>For the Lord is a Father and Friend, and the day of His coming is near.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Henry+Kendall">Henry Kendall</a><div class=q>
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That comes with the fall of the leaf, I sing to the shadows to-night.

The laugh on the lyrical lips is sadder than laughter of ghosts
Chained back in the pits of eclipse by wailing ..."></div>
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