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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=508969" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Worms</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Worms finer for fishing you couldn't be wishing;<br>I delved them dismayed from the velvety sod;<br>The rich loam upturning I gathered them squirming,<br>big, fat, gleamy earthworms, all ripe for my rod.<br>Thinks I, without waiting, my hook I'll be baiting,<br>And flip me a fish from the foam of the pool;<br>Then Mother beholding, came crying and scolding:<br>&quot;You're late, ye young devil! Be off to the school.&quot;<br>So grabbing me bait-tin I dropped them fat worms in,<br>With globs of green turf for their comfort and cheer;<br>And there, clean forgotten, no doubt dead and rotten;<br>I left them to languish for nigh on a year.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">One day to be cleaning the byre I was meaning,<br>When seeing that old rusty can on the shelf,<br>Says I: &quot;To my thinking, them worms must be stinking:<br>Begorrah! I'd better find out for myself.&quot;<br>So I opened the tin, held my nose and looked in;<br>And what did I see? Why, most nothing at all.<br>Just darkness and dank. and . . . a something that stank,<br>Tucked down in a corner, a greasy grey ball.<br>My worms - no, not dead, but thin as a thread,<br>Each seemed to reproach me, protesting its worth:<br>So softly I took them and tenderly shook them<br>Back into the bosom of mothering earth.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I'm now in the City; 'tis grand, but I pity<br>The weariful wretches that crawl in its grime;<br>The dregs and the scum and the spawn of the slum,<br>And the poor little children that's cradled in crime.<br>Sure I see them in terms of my pitiful worms,<br>surviving despite desperation and doom,<br>And I wish I was God, with a smile and a nod<br>To set them all down in a valley of bloom,<br>Saying: &quot;Let these rejoice with a wonderful voice<br>For mothering earth and for fathering sea,<br>And healing of sun, for each weariful one<br>Of these poor human worms is a wee bit of me. . . .<br>Let your be the blame and yours be the shame:<br>What ye do unto them ye do also to ME.&quot;</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Robert+William+Service">Robert William Service</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=508969" data-title="Worms de Robert William Service" data-description="Worms finer for fishing you couldn't be wishing;
I delved them dismayed from the velvety sod;
The rich loam upturning I gathered them squirming,
big, fat, gleamy earthworms, all ripe for my rod.
Thinks I, without waiting, my hook I'll be baiting,
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