Fiecare floare trebuie udată cu dragoste și îngrijită cu tandrețe
pentru a-și dezvălui frumusețea rară și adevărata ei splendoare.
quote by Marius Alexandru (2022)
Submitted by anonym
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Atunci si Acum
Atunci cand erai departe, cand intre noi doi era un ocean, si 7000 de kilometri
cand tu erai in trecut, iar eu in viitor
atunci, de ce ma iubeai, si vroiai
sa ma porti pe deget, iar acum
cand ai venit acasa, nu mai simti la fel.
Am gresit cumva, trebuia oare sa te fac din cand in cand sa ma urasti?
ca sa nu uiti cum sa ma iubesti.
Atunci nu-ti pasa, insa acum vezi numai defecte
si cauti orice lucru, ce ar putea sa ne desparta, si te urasc putin pentru asta, pentru ca nu ai incredere in mine.
Da, e o lume oribila, dar asta nu inseamna ca trebuie sa ne lasam modelati de ea,
avem si noi putere, nu suntem chiar atat de slabi.
Pentru mine e invers, pentru ca acum
te iubesc, mai mult decat te iubeam atunci,
mai mult decat te-am iubit vreodata,
si simt ca o sa te iubesc in continuare
mai mult decat voi iubii vreodata.
poem by Serban Raducu Bogdan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Tu nu vei afla
Tu, cea pe care o iubesc cel mai mult dintre toate fetele din lumea asta mizerabila,
cea pentru care simt ceea ce nu am simtit niciodata pentru nimeni
tu nu ma iubesti pe mine, tu nu te gandesti la mine, si nu iti pasa de mine,
asa cum mie imi pasa de tine, asa cum eu te iubesc pe tine.
Inca te mai gasesc, dar nu pot sa te mai ating, sau sa te sarut.
Nu mai pot nici macar sa te iubesc in secret
cum o faceam inainte sa fim impreuna
nu mai am voie, pentru ca spre deosebire de atunci
acum, tu nu mai vrei ca eu sa te iubesc
sa te pretuiesc
sa-ti trimit mesaje
tu nu mai ai nevoie sa ma auzi rostind
acele cuvinte care pentru tine sunt atat de greu de rostit, sau simtit.
Tu nu crezi ca as fi putut
dar eu inca vreau
sa-mi ucid visele pentru tine,
sa plec oriunde, pentru a ramane cu tine
sa ard in iad pentru inca un sarut
acel sarut, care pentru tine nu mai inseamna nimic.
As vrea sa iti mai spun toate aceste lucruri,
dar o sa incerc sa nu o fac
sa nu fiu si mai ridicol in ochii tai (verzi) .
poem by Serban Raducu Bogdan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Pentru Nimeni (nu citi)
Am asteptat destul, sa te intorci.
E timpul, poate, sa merg si eu mai departe,
si sa pun mana pe visele ce le visez
in lipsa ta,
pentru ca nu pot sa raman o biata umbra.
Sunt pana la urma,
creatia ta monstruasa si dementa.
E un secret,
dar eu inca te iubesc,
si a fost o prostie sa ma intrebi daca am fost vreodata fericit cu tine, pentru ca nu am fost niciodata mai fericit ca atunci cand iti juram iubire, si mi-as fi dat viata pentru tine.
Inca nu am suficienta ura, pentru a simti altceva.
Ai reusit insa sa ma faci sa-l urasc pe dumnezeu mai mult ca niciodata,
cu toate ca nu cred ca ar putea exista,
dar am nevoie de ura,
ca sa pot supravietui fara iubire.
poem by Serban Raducu Bogdan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Nu si eu
Pasesti afara din viata mea, intr-un loc al tau, unde eu nu te pot urma, nu pentru ca nu as vrea
dar pentru ca tu nu vrei ca eu sa te urmez.
Cred ca ti-e frica, de iubire
sa nu te raneasca din nou,
dar a mea nu e ca a lor,
iubirea mea nu va decide niciodata, ca s-a saturat de tine,
si nici eu, si orice ar crede lumea despre mine,
orice ai crede tu despre mine
nu as fi ales alt pat, in care sa dorm
daca altcineva in afara de tine s-ar afla in el.
Daca ai stii, cat de multe lucruri,
as fi facut pentru tine, cat de mult..
poate atunci ai fi ales sa stai.
poem by Serban Raducu Bogdan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Cuvinte
Sunt doar un baietel slabanog, ce inca se gandeste la fata ce l-a facut sa planga.
Imi amintesc cum atunci, in mintea ta ma aparai de cuvintele jignitoare
ale celor ce ti-au ramas prieteni,
acum cand eu nu-ti mai sunt.
Pana la urma, cred ca aveau dreptate
ca sunt prea urat pentru tine,
dar nu a fost doar atat
sunt mult mai multe lucruri
ce te fac sa te indoiesti, de iubirea mea
care infinita cat era ea
a venit prea tarziu in viata ta.
Ma indoiesc ca as fi putut face ceva mai mult pentru noi doi.
Eu nu am aur, asa cum au altii
si nu pot sa te fac regina.
In mintea mea esti doar o biata eroina, o corabie ce paraseste grabita
insula pe care a naufragiat in urma cu aproape sapte luni
intr-o noapte, cand era prea intuneric pentru stele
si de frica, te-ai lasat pacalita de sarutul meu sfios.
Eu am ramas aici, oare nu ma vezi?
Si de ce a trebuit sa-l iei si pe Vineri cu tine, nu am si eu dreptul la un prieten?
Am inceput sa scriu din ce in ce mai mult,
pentru ca am multe lucruri sa-ti spun,
dar nu o fac pentru tine, nu-ti face grija
o fac pentru mine, pentru ca vreau sa te ingrop
sub miliarde de cuvinte
si sa ma ingrop si eu, odata cu tine,
intr-o lume unde si eu sunt eroul tau, iar tu, ei bine sper ca macar acolo, in lumea mea sa ma iubesti, daca aici nu mai poti.
poem by Serban Raducu Bogdan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Widow's Party
"Where have you been this while away,
Johnnie, Johnnie?"
'Long with the rest on a picnic lay,
Johnnie, my Johnnie, aha!
They called us out of the barrack-yard
To Gawd knows where from Gosport Hard,
And you can't refuse when you get the card,
And the Widow gives the party.
(~Bugle~: Ta--rara--ra-ra-rara!)
"What did you get to eat and drink,
Johnnie, Johnnie?"
Standing water as thick as ink,
Johnnie, my Johnnie, aha!
A bit o' beef that were three year stored,
A bit o' mutton as tough as a board,
And a fowl we killed with a sergeant's sword,
When the Widow give the party.
"What did you do for knives and forks,
Johnnie, Johnnie?"
We carries 'em with us wherever we walks,
Johnnie, my Johnnie, aha!
And some was sliced and some was halved,
And some was crimped and some was carved,
And some was gutted and some was starved,
When the Widow give the party.
"What ha' you done with half your mess,
Johnnie, Johnnie?"
They couldn't do more and they wouldn't do less,
Johnnie, my Johnnie, aha!
They ate their whack and they drank their fill,
And I think the rations has made them ill,
For half my comp'ny's lying still
Where the Widow give the party.
"How did you get away -- away,
Johnnie, Johnnie?"
On the broad o' my back at the end o' the day,
Johnnie, my Johnnie, aha!
I comed away like a bleedin' toff,
For I got four niggers to carry me off,
As I lay in the bight of a canvas trough,
When the Widow give the party.
"What was the end of all the show,
Johnnie, Johnnie?"
Ask my Colonel, for ~I~ don't know,
Johnnie, my Johnnie, aha!
We broke a King and we built a road --
A court-house stands where the reg'ment goed.
And the river's clean where the raw blood flowed
When the Widow give the party.
(~Bugle~: Ta--rara--ra-ra-rara!)
poem by Rudyard Kipling
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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După cum puteți vedea, XRumer + XEvil a rupt cu succes orice măsuri anti-bot pe site-ul dumneavoastră.
Oh, da, XEvil 4.0 poate rezolva Google ReCaptcha-2 prea. Fără nici o problemă - doar să verificați videoclipurile despre XEvil în YouTube.
Și puteți folosi XEvil pentru site-ul dvs.! Creșterea popularității și de a face bani, ca alți proprietari fericit XEvil ;)
Mult noroc!
quote by XEvilLooth
Submitted by XEvilLoothVQ
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Doar a mea e
Mi-e teama ca nu o sa te mai iubesc,
atunci cand o sa-mi dau seama, ca nu te mai fascinez, ca alta data.
Mi-e teama ca atunci, o sa mor cu adevarat
ca o sa ma schimb, ca o sa incep sa port si eu masca ipocriziei
la fel ca toti, ca o sa mint doar ca sa ajung in patul unei fete
pe care in realitate nu dau doi bani.
O sa dau minciuni pe iubirea uneia pe care nu o iubesc
si o sa devin din ce in ce mai bun
si totodata ascuns de iubire
si atunci eu o sa fiu in locul tau
si cercul devine cerc, asa cum tu i-ai luat locul celui ce te-a ranit
si ai simtit, ceea ce simt eu acum.
E dizgratios din partea mea sa dau vina pe tine,
pentru ca vina e a mea,
iubire.
Vina e a mea.
poem by Serban Raducu Bogdan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Linistea ta tulburatoare si rece
Despre cuvintele mele, ce parere ai?
Avid dupa admiratia ta pierduta, le-am pus aici,
in acest loc unde toti vorbesc o alta limba.
Ei nu vor intelege, insa tu, daca vreodata vei ajunge din gresala sa pasesti pe aici
ai sa intelegi (poate)
dar sper sa nu fie prea tarziu
si sa iti pese putin, de ce scriu pentru tine,
in aceasta limba.
Nu-ti fie teama, sa-mi spui, inca sunt indragostit
de mirajul tau,
ca o cometa, dansezi cu stelele, si voi astepta sa te intorci, sa iti spun povestea completa,
si sa pot vedea din nou urmele incandescente
ce le lasa picioarele tale in aceasta lume din mintea mea.
(...)
Ar trebui poate, sa fiu realist, nu-mi face bine sa fiu ridicol, sa visez, sa sper,
dar viata mea are o singura eroina.
poem by Serban Raducu Bogdan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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LA BOCCA DE-LA-VERITA' (The mouth Of truth)
In d'una chiesa sopra a 'na piazzetta
Un po' ppiù ssù de Piazza Montanara
Pe la strada che pporta a la Salara,
C'è in nell'entrà una cosa benedetta.
Pe ttutta Roma quant'è larga e stretta
Nun poterai trovà cosa ppiù rara.
È una faccia de pietra che tt'impara
Chi ha detta la bucìa, chi nu l'ha detta.
S'io mo a sta faccia, c'ha la bocca uperta,
Je ce metto una mano, e nu la striggne
La verità da me ttiella pe certa.
Ma ssi fficca la mano uno in bucìa,
Èssi sicuro che a tirà né a spiggne
Quella mano che lì nun viè ppiù via.
English
In a church, in a small square
Shortly after Montanara Square [2] ,
Along the road leading to the salt-works,
As soon as you enter there's something holy.
In all Rome far and wide
You could not find something as rare as that.
It's a face of stone, which tells
Who is a lier and who is not.
If in the mouth of this statue, which is open,
I insert my hand and it does not clasp it,
Consider my truth as most reliable.
But if a lier inserts his hand
Be sure that, push or pull,
That hand won't come out.
poem by Giuseppe Gioacchino Belli
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Anike
Looto eranko bi kiniun sowon ninu igbo, otito sini wipe eja bi arogidigba sowon ninu odo.Nje omidan bi amolewa bi osupa, awelewa bi osumare tofi gbogbo ara se kikida ewa bi wura.Ibaje wipe gbogbo omidan lomo ibi ti otiri ewa tire, won ba malo ibe lo toro ewa, tabi wipe ewa re sefi owo ra.Anike, kikida eyin lo funfun balau to si n dan bi fadaka, ohun enu re amadun ni eti eni bi ti awon angeli, erin re asi mada eni lorun.Iru iyin wo ni aba yin eledumare to da omidan yii? iwa lewa, abefe, apon bepo re, oreke lewa, amo o loto gbogbo ibi ni won ti dana ale amo obe lodun ju irawon lo, loto opolopo omidan lowa, amoo omidan bi anike sowon larin awon elegbe re.ANIKE.Se ewa ni tire yii ni tabi osumare? tori wipe igbakugba ti n ba ti n wo ewa oju re, oma n je kinmo wipe kosi opin ninu owun ara ti eledumare da.Anike amolewa bi egbin, awelewa bi okin, abefe, atutu niwa bi adaba.Ti elomiran bama wi ani ewa re tan bi orun, elomiran ani rara o ewa re mole bi osupa, imiran asi fi ewa re we ti ododo.ANIKE.
poem by Tijani Adebowale Destiny
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Ce-ți doresc eu ție, dulce Românie?
„Ce-ți doresc eu ție dulce Românie,
Țara mea de glorii, țara mea de dor?”
Liniște și pace, numai bucurie,
Sfântă unitate, un trai mai ușor.
Să-ți cunoști trecutul, crede-n viitor,
Amintirea veche să nu te umbrească,
Căci ai oameni harnici, popor iubitor,
Viitor de aur ce-o să strălucească.
Să plângi cu vecinii, că așa se cade,
Să fii pentru semeni apă rece, pâine,
Împarte cu frații ale tale roade,
Nu știi niciodată ce aduce... mâine.
Dar și să te bucuri cu cel care râde,
Razele-ți de soare zilnic să zâmbească,
Brațele-ți deschise duios le întinde,
Spre cei care sincer vor să te iubească.
Ce-ți doresc eu ție, dulce Românie?
Că-s un fiu de-al tău vreau să mă mândresc,
Vers în al meu cântec, muză-n poezie
să-mi rămâi de-a pururi, asta îți doresc.
Munții tăi, Carpații, să-ți poarte drapelul,
Dunărea și Marea să te ocrotească,
Stele lucitoare să îți umple cerul,
Dragostea divină să te copleșească.
Ce-ți doresc eu ție dulce Românie?
Cu tine în suflet vreau să înfloresc
ca și macii roșii pe 'ntinsa-ți câmpie,
Dulce Românie, asta îți doresc,
Dulce Românie, veșnic te iubesc.
poem by Marius Alexandru (May 2022)
Submitted by anonym
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De ziua ta
Vino, si nu te teme a ma omori, iubito
nu mai mi-e frica de nimic, acum ca am pierdut aproape tot ce am castigat vreodata.
Nu te sfii, taie adanc si nu te juca,
infige cat poti de mult, in inima, si ai grija sa nu mai misc, atunci cand il scoti.
Nu, nu e nevoie sa ma legi, sau sa-mi pui perna peste gura
o sa fiu cumine, nu o sa plang, daca vrei pot chiar sa te ajut
pot sa te mint, sa-ti spun ca nu te-am iubit niciodata, ca nu am vrut decat sa ma culc, si nu sa dorm, cu tine.
Invita-ti si 'prietenii', sa vada cum scapi, cum iti iei zborul, cum faci viitorul mai simplu, strivind trecutul,
si lasa-i sa aplaude, si sa rada inca o data, sa se simta bine si sa iti spuna ca au avut dreptate, cand iti reprosau
ca ai ales monstrul cu inima,
in locul printului,
ce conteaza ca printul e putred pe dinauntru.
Macar atata sa iti ofer de ziua ta, daca aur nu am, sa-ti cumpar cadouri scumpe
sau sa vin cu tine, acolo unde te duci, in calatoriile tale.
Iti ofer o minte mai goala, o inima mai goala, fara mine in nici una din ele
si poate si sentimentul nobil ca ai inceput o noua viata, mai buna, mai simpla, fara o grija in plus.
Nu e mai bine asa?
(cum sa fim doar amici, cand mi-ai aratat ca doar viata mea, e mult prea ieftina pentru un sarut de-al tau, iar elena, duca-se dracu, chiar crezi ca o vroiam pe ea in locul tau)
poem by Serban Raducu Bogdan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Song Of The Banjo
You couldn't pack a Broadwood half a mile --
You mustn't leave a fiddle in the damp --
You couldn't raft an organ up the Nile,
And play it in an Equatorial swamp.
~I~ travel with the cooking-pots and pails --
~I'm~ sandwiched 'tween the coffee and the pork --
And when the dusty column checks and tails,
You should hear me spur the rear-guard to a walk!
With my "~Pilly-willy-winky-winky popp!~"
[Oh, it's any tune that comes into my head!]
So I keep 'em moving forward till they drop;
So I play 'em up to water and to bed.
In the silence of the camp before the fight,
When it's good to make your will and say your prayer,
You can hear my ~strumpty-tumpty~ overnight
Explaining ten to one was always fair.
I'm the Prophet of the Utterly Absurd,
Of the Patently Impossible and Vain --
And when the Thing that Couldn't has occurred,
Give me time to change my leg and go again.
With my "~Tumpa-tumpa-tumpa-tum-pa tump!~"
In the desert where the dung-fed camp-smoke curled
There was never voice before us till I led our lonely chorus,
I -- the war-drum of the White Man round the world!
By the bitter road the Younger Son must tread,
Ere he win to hearth and saddle of his own, --
'Mid the riot of the shearers at the shed,
In the silence of the herder's hut alone --
In the twilight, on a bucket upside down,
Hear me babble what the weakest won't confess --
I am Memory and Torment -- I am Town!
I am all that ever went with evening dress!
With my "~Tunk-a tunka-tunka-tunka-tunk!~"
[So the lights -- the London Lights -- grow near and plain!]
So I rowel 'em afresh towards the Devil and the Flesh,
Till I bring my broken rankers home again.
In desire of many marvels over sea,
Where the new-raised tropic city sweats and roars,
I have sailed with Young Ulysses from the quay
Till the anchor rumbled down on stranger shores.
He is blooded to the open and the sky,
He is taken in a snare that shall not fail,
He shall hear me singing strongly, till he die,
Like the shouting of a backstay in a gale.
With my "~Hya! Heeya! Heeya! Hullah! Haul!~"
[O the green that thunders aft along the deck!]
Are you sick o' towns and men? You must sign and sail again,
For it's "Johnny Bowlegs, pack your kit and trek!"
Through the gorge that gives the stars at noon-day clear --
Up the pass that packs the scud beneath our wheel --
Round the bluff that sinks her thousand fathom sheer --
Down the valley with our guttering brakes asqueal:
Where the trestle groans and quivers in the snow,
Where the many-shedded levels loop and twine,
So I lead my reckless children from below
Till we sing the Song of Roland to the pine.
With my "~Tinka-tinka-tinka-tinka-tink!~"
[And the axe has cleared the mountain, croup and crest!]
So we ride the iron stallions down to drink,
Through the ca]~nons to the waters of the West!
And the tunes that mean so much to you alone --
Common tunes that make you choke and blow your nose,
Vulgar tunes that bring the laugh that brings the groan --
I can rip your very heartstrings out with those;
With the feasting, and the folly, and the fun --
And the lying, and the lusting, and the drink,
And the merry play that drops you, when you're done,
To the thoughts that burn like irons if you think.
With my "~Plunka-lunka-lunka-lunka-lunk!~"
Here's a trifle on account of pleasure past,
Ere the wit that made you win gives you eyes to see your sin
And the heavier repentance at the last!
Let the organ moan her sorrow to the roof --
I have told the naked stars the Grief of Man!
Let the trumpets snare the foeman to the proof --
I have known Defeat, and mocked it as we ran!
My bray ye may not alter nor mistake
When I stand to jeer the fatted Soul of Things,
But the Song of Lost Endeavour that I make,
Is it hidden in the twanging of the strings?
With my "~Ta-ra-rara-rara-ra-ra-rrrp!~"
[Is it naught to you that hear and pass me by?]
But the word -- the word is mine, when the order moves the line
And the lean, locked ranks go roaring down to die.
Of the driven dust of speech I make a flame
And a scourge of broken withes that men let fall:
For the words that had no honour till I came --
Lo! I raise them into honour over all!
By the wisdom of the centuries I speak --
To the tune of yestermorn I set the truth --
I, the joy of life unquestioned -- I, the Greek --
I, the everlasting Wonder Song of Youth!
With my "~Tinka-tinka-tinka-tinka-tink!~"
[What d'ye lack, my noble masters? What d'ye lack?]
So I draw the world together link by link:
Yea, from Delos up to Limerick and back!
poem by Rudyard Kipling
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Vejeces
Las cosas viejas, tristes, desteñidas,
Sin voz y sin color, saben secretos
De las épocas muertas, de las vidas
Que ya nadie conserva en la memoria,
Y a veces a los hombres, cuando inquietos
Las miran y las palpan, con extrañas
Voces de agonizante, dicen, paso,
Casi al oído, alguna rara historia
Que tiene oscuridad de telarañas,
Son de laúd y suavidad de raso.
¡Colores de anticuada miniatura,
Hoy, de algún mueble en el cajón, dormida;
Cincelado puñal; carta borrosa,
Tabla en que se deshace la pintura
Por el tiempo y el polvo ennegrecida;
Histórico blasón, donde se pierde
La divisa latina, presuntuosa,
Medio borrada por el líquen verde;
Misales de las viejas sacristías;
De otros siglos fantásticos espejos
Que en el azogue de las lunas frías
Guardáis de lo pasado los reflejos;
Arca, en un tiempo de ducados llena,
Crucifijo que tanto moribundo,
Humedeció con lágrimas de pena
Y besó con amor grave y profundo;
Negro sillón de Córdoba; alacena
Que guardaba un tesoro peregrino
Y donde anida la polilla sola;
Sortija que adornaste el dedo fino
De algún hidalgo de espadín y gola;
Mayúsculas del viejo pergamino;
Batista tenue que a vainilla hueles;
Seda que te deshaces en la trama
Confusa de los ricos brocateles;
Arpa olvidada que al sonar, te quejas;
Barrotes que formáis un monograma
Incomprensible en las antiguas rejas,
El vulgo os huye, el soñador os ama
Y en vuestra muda sociedad reclama
Las confidencias de las cosas viejas!
El pasado perfuma los ensueños
Con esencias fantásticas y añejas
Y nos lleva a lugares halagüeños
En épocas distantes y mejores;
Por eso a los poetas soñadores,
Les son dulces, gratísimas y caras,
Las crónicas, historias y consejas,
Las formas, los estilos, los colores,
Las sugestiones místicas y raras
Y los perfumes de las cosas viejas.
poem by Jose Asuncion Silva
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Look at The Clock!' : Patty Morgan The Milkmaid's Story
FYTTE I.
'Look at the Clock!' quoth Winifred Pryce,
As she open'd the door to her husband's knock,
Then paus'd to give him a piece of advice,
'You nasty Warmint, look at the Clock!
Is this the way, you
Wretch, every day you
Treat her who vow'd to love and obey you?
Out all night!
Me in a fright;
Staggering home as it's just getting light!
You intoxified brute! you insensible block!
Look at the Clock!-- Do!-- Look at the Clock!'
Winifred Pryce was tidy and clean,
Her gown was a flower'd one, her petticoat green,
Her buckles were bright as her milking cans,
And her hat was a beaver, and made like a man's;
Her little red eyes were deep set in their socket-holes,
Her gown-tail was turn'd up, and tuck'd through the pocket-holes:
A face like a ferret
Betoken'd her spirit:
To conclude, Mrs. Pryce was not over young,
Had very short legs, and a very long tongue.
Now David Pryce
Had one darling vice;
Remarkably partial to anything nice,
Nought that was good to him came amiss,
Whether to eat, or to drink, or to kiss!
Especially ale --
If it was not too stale
I really believe he'd have emptied a pail;
Not that in Wales
They talk of their Ales;
To pronounce the word they make use of might trouble you,
Being spelt with a C, two Rs, and a W.
That particular day,
As I've heard people say,
Mr. David Pryce had been soaking his clay,
And amusing himself with his pipe and cheroots,
The whole afternoon at the Goat in Boots,
With a couple more soakers,
Thoroughbred smokers,
Both, like himself, prime singers and jokers;
And, long after day had drawn to a close,
And the rest of the world was wrapp'd in repose,
They were roaring out 'Shenkin!' and 'Ar hydd y nos;'
While David himself, to a Sassenach tune,
Sang, 'We've drunk down the Sun, boys! let's drink down the Moon!'
What have we with day to do?
Mrs. Winifred Pryce, 'twas made for you!'--
At length, when they couldn't well drink any more,
Old 'Goat-in-Boots' show'd them the door;
And then came that knock,
And the sensible shock
David felt when his wife cried, 'Look at the Clock!'
For the hands stood as crooked as crooked might be,
The long at the Twelve, and the short at the Three!
This self-same Clock had long been a bone
Of contention between this Darby and Joan;
And often among their pother and rout,
When this otherwise amiable couple fell out,
Pryce would drop a cool hint,
With an ominous squint
At its case, of an 'Uncle' of his, who'd a 'Spout.'
That horrid word 'Spout'
No sooner came out,
Than Winifred Pryce would turn her about,
And with scorn on her lip,
And a hand on each hip,
'Spout' herself till her nose grew red at the tip.
'You thundering willain,
I know you'd be killing
Your wife,-- ay, a dozen of wives,-- for a shilling!
You may do what you please,
You may sell my chemise,
(Mrs. P. was too well-bred to mention her stock,)
But I never will part with my Grandmother's Clock!'
Mrs. Pryce's tongue ran long and ran fast;
But patience is apt to wear out at last,
And David Pryce in temper was quick,
So he stretch'd out his hand, and caught hold of a stick;
Perhaps in its use he might mean to be lenient,
But walking just then wasn't very convenient,
So he threw it, instead,
Direct at her head.
It knock'd off her hat;
Down she fell flat;
Her case, perhaps, was not much mended by that:
But, whatever it was,-- whether rage and pain
Produced apoplexy, or burst a vein,
Or her tumble induced a concussion of brain,
I can't say for certain,-- but this I can,
When, sober'd by fright, to assist her he ran,
Mrs. Winifred Pryce was as dead as Queen Anne!
The fearful catastrophe
Named in my last strophe
As adding to grim Death's exploits such a vast trophy,
Soon made a great noise; and the shocking fatality
Ran over, like wild-fire, the whole Principality.
And then came Mr. Ap Thomas, the Coroner,
With his jury to sit, some dozen or more, on her.
Mr. Pryce to commence
His 'ingenious defence,'
Made a 'powerful appeal' to the jury's 'good sense,'
'The world he must defy
Ever to justify
Any presumption of 'Malice Prepense;'
The unlucky lick
From the end of his stick
He 'deplored,' he was 'apt to be rather too quick;'
But, really, her prating
Was so aggravating:
Some trifling correction was just what he meant; all
The rest, he assured them, was 'quite accidental!'
Then he called Mr. Jones,
Who deposed to her tones,
And her gestures, and hints about 'breaking his bones.'
While Mr. Ap Morgan, and Mr. Ap Rhys
Declared the Deceased
Had styled him 'a Beast,'
And swore they had witness'd, with grief and surprise,
The allusions she made to his limbs and his eyes.
The jury, in fine, having sat on the body
The whole day, discussing the case, and gin-toddy,
Return'd about half-past eleven at night
The following verdict, 'We find, Sarve her right!'
Mr. Pryce, Mrs. Winifred Pryce being dead,
Felt lonely, and moped; and one evening he said
He would marry Miss Davis at once in her stead.
Not far from his dwelling,
From the vale proudly swelling,
Rose a mountain; it's name you'll excuse me from telling,
For the vowels made use of in Welsh are so few
That the A and the E, the I, O, and the U,
Have really but little or nothing to do;
And the duty, of course, falls the heavier by far
On the L, and the H, and the N, and the R.
Its first syllable, 'Pen,'
Is pronounceable;-- then
Come two L Ls, and two H Hs, two F Fs, and an N;
About half a score Rs, and some Ws follow,
Beating all my best efforts at euphony hollow:
But we shan't have to mention it often, so when
We do, with your leave, we'll curtail it to 'Pen.'
Well,-- the moon shone bright
Upon 'Pen' that night,
When Pryce, being quit of his fuss and his fright,
Was scaling its side
With that sort of stride
A man puts out when walking in search of a bride,
Mounting higher and higher,
He began to perspire,
Till, finding his legs were beginning to tire,
And feeling opprest
By a pain in his chest,
He paused, and turn'd round to take breath, and to rest;
A walk all up hill is apt, we know,
To make one, however robust, puff and blow,
So he stopp'd, and look'd down on the valley below.
O'er fell, and o'er fen,
Over mountain and glen,
All bright in the moonshine, his eye roved, and then
All the Patriot rose in his soul, and he thought
Of Wales, and her glories, and all he'd been taught
Of her Heroes of old,
So brave and so bold,--
Of her Bards with long beards, and harps mounted in gold;
Of King Edward the First,
Of memory accurst;
And the scandalous manner in which he behaved,
Killing Poets by dozens,
With their uncles and cousins,
Of whom not one in fifty had ever been shaved.
Of the Court Ball, at which by a lucky mishap,
Owen Tudor fell into Queen Katherine's lap;
And how Mr. Tudor
Successfully woo'd her
Till the Dowager put on a new wedding ring,
And so made him Father-in-law to the King.
He thought upon Arthur, and Merlin of yore,
On Gryffth ap Conan, and Owen Glendour;
On Pendragon, and Heaven knows how many more.
He thought of all this, as he gazed, in a trice,
And on all things, in short, but the late Mrs. Pryce;
When a lumbering noise from behind made him start,
And sent the blood back in full tide to his heart,
Which went pit-a-pat
As he cried out, 'What's that?'--
That very queer sound?
Does it come from the ground?
Or the air,-- from above or below, or around?
It is not like Talking,
It is not like Walking,
It's not like the clattering of pot or of pan,
Or the tramp of a horse,-- or the tread of a man,--
Or the hum of a crowd,-- or the shouting of boys,--
It's really a deuced odd sort of a noise!
Not unlike a Cart's,-- but that can't be; for when
Could 'all the King's horses and all the King's men,'
With Old Nick for a waggoner, drive one up 'Pen?'
Pryce, usually brimful of valour when drunk,
Now experienced what schoolboys denominate 'funk.'
In vain he look'd back
On the whole of the track
He had traversed; a thick cloud, uncommonly black,
At this moment obscured the broad disc of the moon,
And did not seem likely to pass away soon;
While clearer and clearer,
'Twas plain to the hearer,
Be the noise what it might, it drew nearer and nearer,
And sounded, as Pryce to this moment declares,
Very much 'like a Coffin a-walking up stairs.'
Mr. Pryce had begun
To 'make up' for a run,
As in such a companion he saw no great fun,
When a single bright ray
Shone out on the way
He had pass'd, and he saw, with no little dismay,
Coming after him, bounding o'er crag and o'er rock,
The deceased Mrs. Winifred's 'Grandmother's Clock!!'
'Twas so!-- it had certainly moved from its place,
And come, lumbering on thus, to hold him in chase;
'Twas the very same Head, and the very same Case,
And nothing was alter'd at all -- but the Face!
In that he perceived, with no little surprise,
The two little winder-holes turn'd into eyes
Blazing with ire,
Like two coals of fire;
And the 'Name of the Maker' was changed to a Lip,
And the Hands to a Nose with a very red tip.
No!-- he could not mistake it,--' twas She to the life!
The identical Face of his poor defunct Wife!
One glance was enough,
Completely 'Quant. suff.'
As the doctors write down when they send you their 'stuff,'--
Like a Weather-cock whirl'd by a vehement puff,
David turn'd himself round;
Ten feet of ground
He clear'd, in his start, at the very first bound!
I've seen people run at West-End Fair for cheeses,
I've seen Ladies run at Bow Fair for chemises,
At Greenwich Fair twenty men run for a hat,
And one from a Bailiff much faster than that;
At foot-ball I've seen lads run after the bladder,
I've seen Irish Bricklayers run up a ladder,
I've seen little boys run away from a cane,
And I've seen (that is, read of) good running in Spain;
But I never did read
Of, or witness, such speed
As David exerted that evening.-- Indeed
All I ever have heard of boys, women, or men,
Falls far short of Pryce, as he ran over 'Pen!'
He reaches its brow,--
He has past it, and now
Having once gain'd the summit, and managed to cross it, he
Rolls down the side with uncommon velocity;
But, run as he will,
Or roll down the hill,
That bugbear behind him is after him still!
And close at his heels, not at all to his liking,
The terrible Clock keeps on ticking and striking,
Till, exhausted and sore,
He can't run any more,
But falls as he reaches Miss Davis's door,
And screams when they rush out, alarm'd at his knock,
'Oh! Look at the Clock!-- Do!-- Look at the Clock!!'
Miss Davis look'd up, Miss Davis look'd down,
She saw nothing there to alarm her;-- a frown
Came o'er her white forehead,
She said, 'It was horrid
A man should come knocking at that time of night,
And give her Mamma and herself such a fright;
To squall and to bawl
About nothing at all,
She begg'd 'he'd not think of repeating his call,
His late wife's disaster
By no means had past her,'
She'd 'have him to know she was meat for his Master!'
Then, regardless alike of his love and his woes,
She turn'd on her heel and she turned up her nose.
Poor David in vain
Implored to remain,
He 'dared not,' he said, 'cross the mountain again.'
Why the fair was obdurate
None knows,-- to be sure, it
Was said she was setting her cap at the Curate;--
Be that as it may, it is certain the sole hole
Pryce could find to creep into that night was the Coal-hole!
In that shady retreat,
With nothing to eat,
And with very bruised limbs, and with very sore feet,
All night close he kept;
I can't say he slept;
But he sigh'd, and he sobb'd, and he groan'd, and he wept,
Lamenting his sins
And his two broken shins,
Bewailing his fate with contortions and grins,
And her he once thought a complete Rara Avis,
Consigning to Satan,-- viz. cruel Miss Davis!
Mr. David has since had a 'serious call,'
He never drinks ale, wine, or spirits, at all,
And they say he is going to Exeter Hall
To make a grand speech,
And to preach, and to teach
People that 'they can't brew their malt-liquor too small!'
That an ancient Welsh Poet, one Pyndar ap Tudor,
Was right in proclaiming 'Ariston men Udor!'
Which means 'The pure Element
Is for the belly meant!'
And that Gin's but a Snare of Old Nick the deluder!
And 'still on each evening when pleasure fills up,'
At the old Goat-in-Boots, with Metheglin, each cup,
Mr Pryce, if he's there,
Will get into 'the Chair,'
And make all his quondam associates stare
By calling aloud to the landlady's daughter,
'Patty! bring a cigar, and a glass of Spring Water!'
The dial he constantly watches; and when
The long hand's at the 'XII,' and the short at the 'X,'
He gets on his legs,
Drains his glass to the dregs,
Takes his hat and great-coat off their several pegs,
With his President's hammer bestows his last knock,
And says solemnly,--'Gentlemen!
'Look at the Clock!!!
poem by Richard Harris Barham
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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