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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=537898" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Poet, The Oyster, And Sensitive Plant</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">An Oyster, cast upon the shore,<br>Was heard, though never heard before,<br>Complaining in a speech well worded,<br>And worthy thus to be recorded:--<br>Ah, hapless wretch! condemn’d to dwell<br>For ever in my native shell;<br>Ordain'd to move when others please,<br>Not for my own content or ease;<br>But toss’d and buffeted about,<br>Now in the water and now out.<br>'Twere better to be born a stone,<br>Of ruder shape, and feeling none,<br>Than with a tenderness like mine,<br>And sensibilities so fine!<br>I envy that unfeeling shrub,<br>Fast rooted against every rub.<br>The plant he meant grew not far off,<br>And felt the sneer with scorn enough:<br>Was hurt, disgusted, mortified,<br>And with asperity replied<br>(When, cry the botanists, and stare,<br>Did plants call'd sensitive grow there?<br>No matter when—a poet's muse is<br>To make them grow just where she chooses):--<br>You shapeless nothing in a dish,<br>You that are but almost a fish,<br>I scorn your coarse insinuation,<br>And have most plentiful occasion<br>To wish myself the rock I view,<br>Or such another dolt as you:<br>For many a grave and learned clerk<br>And many a gay unletter'd spark,<br>With curious touch examines me,<br>If I can feel as well as he;<br>And when I bend, retire, and shrink,<br>Says--Well, 'tis more than one would think!<br>Thus life is spent (oh fie upon't!)<br>In being touch'd, and crying—Don’t!<br>A poet, in his evening walk,<br>O’erheard and check'd this idle talk.<br>And your fine sense, he said, and yours,<br>Whatever evil it endures,<br>Deserves not, if so soon offended,<br>Much to be pitied or commended.<br>Disputes, though short, are far too long,<br>Where both alike are in the wrong;<br>Your feelings in their full amount <br>Are all upon your own account.<br>You, in your grotto-work enclosed,<br>Complain of being thus exposed;<br>Yet nothing feel in that rough coat,<br>Save when the knife is at your throat,<br>Wherever driven by wind or tide,<br>Exempt from every ill beside.<br>And as for you, my Lady Squeamish,<br>Who reckon every touch a blemish,<br>If all the plants, that can be found<br>Embellishing the scene around,<br>Should droop and wither where they grow,<br>You would not feel at all--not you.<br>The noblest minds their virtue prove<br>By pity, sympathy, and love:<br>These, these are feelings truly fine,<br>And prove their owner half divine.<br>His censure reach’d them as he dealt it,<br>And each by shrinking show’d he felt it.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=William+Cowper">William Cowper</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=537898" data-title="The Poet, The Oyster, And Sensitive Plant de William Cowper" data-description="An Oyster, cast upon the shore,
Was heard, though never heard before,
Complaining in a speech well worded,
And worthy thus to be recorded:--
Ah, hapless wretch! condemn’d to dwell
For ever in my native shell;
Ordain'd to move when others please,..."></div>
</div>
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