Jonathan Swift (#poem)

 

Satirical Elegy on the Death of a Late Famous General

His Grace! Impossible! What dead!

Of old age, too, and in his bed!

And could that mighty warrior fall?

And so inglorious, after all!

Well, since he's gone, no matter how,

The last loud trump must wake him now;

And, trust me, as the noise grows stronger,

He'd wish to sleep a little longer.

And could he be indeed so old

As by the newspapers we're told?

Threescore, I think, is pretty high;

'Twas time in conscience, he should die

This world he cumbered long enough;

He burnt his candle to the snuff;

And that's the reason some folks think,

He left behind so great a stink.

Behold his funeral appears,

Nor widow's sighs, nor orphan's tears,

Wont at such times each heart to pierce,

Attend the progress of his hearse.

But what of that, his friends may say,

He had those honours in his day,

True to his profit and his pride,

He made them weep before he died.

  Come hither, all ye empty things,

Ye bubbles raised by breath of kings;

Who float upon the tide of state,

Come hither, and behold your fate.

Let pride be taught by this rebuke,

How very mean a thing's a Duke;

From all his ill-got honours flung,

Turned to that dirt from whence he sprung.

-Jonathan Swift

Since we're back from Ireland and I had that convenient picture of Jonathan Swift...

We went to St. Patrick's Cathedral in Dublin where Swift was Dean, and heard an Evensong service there:

Look at all that glorious (and improbable) sunshine!

Was this the poem to quote just before Charles' coronation? Oh, I don't know...

The Microbe (#Poem)

 

The Microbe

The Microbe is so very small
You cannot make him out at all,
But many sanguine people hope
To see him through a microscope.
His jointed tongue that lies beneath
A hundred curious rows of teeth;
His seven tufted tails with lots
Of lovely pink and purple spots,
On each of which a pattern stands,
Composed of forty separate bands;
His eyebrows of a tender green;
All these have never yet been seen--
But Scientists, who ought to know
Assure us that they must be so...
Oh! let us never, never doubt
What nobody is sure about!

-Hilaire Belloc

Hilaire Belloc was an English Catholic writer (though born in France) who died  in 1953.

Just back from a most of a week in the wilds...

To Any Reader (#PoemForAThursday)

 

To Any Reader

As from the house your mother sees
You playing round the garden trees,
So you may see, if you will look
Through the windows of this book,
Another child, far, far away,
And in another garden, play.
But do not think you can at all,
By knocking on the window, call
That child to hear you. He intent
Is all on his play-business bent.
He does not hear; he will not look,
Nor yet be lured out of this book.
For, long ago, the truth to say,
He has grown up and gone away,
And it is but a child of air
That lingers in the garden there. 

-R. L. Stevenson

Since it seems to be Stevenson week around here...

This is the final poem, after several other dedications, in A Child's Garden of Verses. Even if you've read it before, it's probably been a while. 😉

Poem for a Thursday is a meme originated by Jennifer at Holds Upon Happiness. Brona also has a poem this week.