The pitcher doth not go so often to the well, but it comes home broken at last.
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Potters' Clay
Though the pitcher that goes to the sparkling rill
Too oft gets broken at last,
There are scores of others its place to fill
When its earth to the earth is cast ;
Keep that pitcher at home, let it never roam,
But lie like a useless clod,
Yet sooner or later the hour will come
When its chips are thrown to the sod.
Is it wise, then, say, in the waning day,
When the vessel is crack'd and old,
To cherish the battered potter's clay,
As though it were virgin gold ?
Take care of yourself, dull, boorish elf,
Though prudent and safe you seem,
Your pitcher will break on the musty shelf,
And mine by the dazzling stream.
poem by Adam Lindsay Gordon
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I'm always amazed when a pitcher becomes angry at a hitter for hitting a home run off him. When I strike out, I don't get angry at the pitcher, I get angry at myself. I would think that if a pitcher threw up a home run ball, he should be angry at himself.
quote by Willie Stargell
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The pitcher goes so often to the well that it comes home broken at last.
The Broken Pitcher
It was a Moorish maiden was sitting by a well,
And what the maiden thought of, I cannot, cannot, tell,
When by there rode a valiant knight from the town of Oviedo,
Alphonso Guzman was he hight, the Count of Tololedo.
'Oh, maiden, Moorish maiden! why sitt'st thou by the spring?
Say, dost thou seek a lover, or any other thing?
Why dost thou look upon me, with eyes so dark and wide,
And wherefore doth the pitcher lie broken by thy side?'
'I do not seek a lover, thou Christian knight so gay,
Because an article like that hath never come my way;
And why I gaze upon you, I cannot, cannot tell,
Except that in your iron hose you look uncommon swell.
'My pitcher it is broken, and this the reason is -
A shepherd came behind me, and tried to snatch a kiss;
I would not stand his nonsense, so ne'er a word I spoke,
But scored him on the costard, and so the jug was broke.
'My uncle, the Alcaydé, he waits for me at home,
And will not take his tumbler, until Zorayda come:
I cannot bring him water - the pitcher is in pieces -
And so I'm sure to catch it, 'cos he wallops all his nieces'
'Oh maiden, Moorish maiden! Wilt thou be ruled by me?
Then wipe thine eyes and rosy lips, and give me kisses three;
And I'll give thee my helmet, thou kind and courteous lady,
To carry home the water to thy Uncle, the Alcaydé.'
He lighted down from off his steed line - he tied him to a tree -
He bent him to the maiden, and he took his kisses three;
'To wrong thee, sweet Zorayda, I swear would be a sin!'
And he knelt him at the fountain, and he dipped his helmet in.
Up rose the Moorish maiden - behind the Knight she steals,
And caught Alphonso Guzman in a twinkling by the heels:
She tipped him in and held him down beneath the bubbling water -
'Now, take thou that for venturing to kiss Al Hamet's daughter!'
A Christian maid is waiting in the town of Oviedo;
She waits the coming of her love, the Count of Tololedo;
I pray you all in charity, that you will never tell,
How he met the Moorish maiden beside the lonely well.
poem by William Edmondstoune Aytoun
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Whether the pitcher strike the stone or the stone the pitcher, the pitcher suffers.
Whether the pitcher strike the stone, or the stone the pitcher, woe be to the pitcher.
Whether the pitcher strikes the stone, or the stone the pitcher, it is bad for the pitcher.
If the pitcher knocks against a stone, woe to the pitcher; and if the stone knocks against the pitcher, woe to the pitcher.
The Broken Salt Pitcher
Something happened, one I never forget.
Whether caused by a Demon or an Angel I cannot tell.
‘Cos a moral lesson was taught from a sin so grave.
This farted in my mouth and poured in honey.
Honey I love; fart nobody cherishes.
My siblings and I were playing like normal kids,
In the visitor's chamber after mama left for her trade
Papa never came home easy, for his work;
Itinerant trading; from coast to coast went he.
That fateful day, whether Devil's or God's work I will never know
Bang, bang, bang, the ball I threw went
The direction we could control not.
Set in motion for fate to decide.
With a loud crash, the pitcher hit the floor.
Salt and enamel all mixed together.
Just then papa stepped inside.
Who broke this pitcher? Nobody responded.
Straight to the room he went.
I, conscience pricked did the confession later.
But papa said something else was broken.
With confusion all over my face I said nothing was.
He shook his head bitterly and said there was;
And it was something bigger and greater than a jug.
Trust, he said was broken, ‘cos my confession came
Just a little late after I killed his trust in me.
poem by Stephen Olufemi Omolara
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Every great batter works on the theory that the pitcher is more afraid of him than he is of the pitcher.
The pitcher goes so often to the well that it is broken at last.
The pitcher goes often to the well and gets broken at last.
The pitcher that goes too often to the well is broken at last.
A pitcher that goes oft to the well is broken at last.
The pitcher goes so often to the well, that it gets broken at last.
And then when I went to stay in '68, I can honestly say that I was not focused on my career and on what it took to be a major league pitcher and to be a starting pitcher.
quote by Nolan Ryan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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No matter how often a pitcher goes to the water, it is broken in the end.
No matter how often a pitcher goes to the water it is broken in the end.
A torn rotator cuff is a cancer for a pitcher and if a pitcher gets a badly torn one, he has to face the facts, it's all over baby.
quote by Don Drysdale
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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