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Thread: Poetry Corner

  1. #121
    My ballsack is half full Üser Friendly's Avatar
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    Jan 1970

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    Charge of the Light Brigade

    By Lord Tennyson

    Half a league, half a league,
      Half a league onward,
    All in the valley of Death,
      Rode the six hundred.
    'Forward, the Light Brigade!
    Charge for the guns' he said:
    Into the valley of Death
      Rode the six hundred.

    'Forward, the Light Brigade!'
    Was there a man dismay'd?
    Not tho' the soldiers knew
      Some one had blunder'd:
    Theirs not to make reply,
    Theirs not to reason why,
    Theirs but to do and die:
    Into the valley of Death
      Rode the six hundred.

    Cannon to right of them,
    Cannon to left of them,
    Cannon in front of them
      Volley'd and thunder'd;
    Storm'd at with shot and shell,
    Boldly they rode and well,
    Into the jaws of Death,
    Into the mouth of Hell
      Rode the six hundred.

    Flash'd all their sabres bare,
    Flash'd as they turned in air
    Sabring the gunners there,
    Charging an army while
      All the world wonder'd:
    Plunged in the battery-smoke
    Right thro' the line they broke;
    Cossack and Russian
    Reel'd from the sabre-stroke
    Shatter'd and sunder'd.
    Then they rode back, but not
    Not the six hundred.

    Cannon to right of them,
    Cannon to left of them,
    Cannon behind them
      Volley'd and thunder'd;
    Storm'd at with shot and shell,
    While horse and hero fell,
    They that had fought so well
    Came thro' the jaws of Death,
    Back from the mouth of Hell,
    All that was left of them,
      Left of six hundred.

    When can their glory fade?
    O the wild charge they made!
      All the world wonder'd.
    Honour the charge they made!
    Honour the Light Brigade,
      Noble six hundred!
    die dümmsten Bauern haben die dicksten Kartoffeln

  2. #122
    Hermetic Syntactical Disruptorize's Avatar
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    Nov 2007

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    From my mother's sleep I fell into the State,
    And I hunched in its belly till my wet fur froze.
    Six miles from earth, loosed from the dream of life,
    I woke to black flak and the nightmare fighters.
    When I died they washed me out of the turret with a hose.

    Sent from my Nexus 5 using Tapatalk
    You know where you'll find sympathy: In the dictionary, between "syphilis" and "suicide".

  3. #123
    your avatar gives me epiliptic fits Adouglasmhor's Avatar
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    Nov 2006

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    Naming of Parts

    Today we have naming of parts. Yesterday,
    We had daily cleaning. And tomorrow morning,
    We shall have what to do after firing. But today,
    Today we have naming of parts. Japonica
    Glistens likecoral in all the neighboring gardens,
    And today we have naming of parts.

    This is the lower sling swivel. And this
    Is the upper sling swivel, whose use you will see,
    When you are given your slings. And this is the piling swivel,
    Which in your case you have not got. The branches
    Hold in the gardens their silent, eloquent gestures,
    Which in our case we have not got.

    This is the safety-catch, which is always released
    With an easy flick of the thumb. And please do not let me
    See anyone using his finger. You can do it quite easy
    If you have any strength in your thumb. The blossoms
    Are fragile and motionless, never letting anyone see
    Any of them using their finger.

    And this you can see is the bolt. The purpose of this
    Is to open the breech, as you see. We can slide it
    Rapidly backwards and forwards: we call this
    Easing the spring. And rapidly backwards and forwards
    The early bees are assaulting and fumbling the flowers:
    They call is easing the Spring.

    They call is easing the Spring: it is perfectly easy
    If you have any strength in your thumb: like the bolt,
    And the breech, the cocking-piece, and the point of balance,
    Which in our case we have not got; and the almond blossom
    Silent in all of the gardens and the bees going backwards and forwards,
    For today we have the naming of parts.
    Henry Reed
    Don’t say, “It’s been a good day” till sundown.
    Don’t say, “She’s a good wife” till she’s buried.
    Don’t say, “It’s a good sword” till you’ve tested it.
    Don’t say, “She’s a good girl” till she’s married off.
    Don’t say, “The ice is safe” till you’ve crossed it.
    Don’t say, “The beer is good” till you’ve drunk the last of it.

    From Hávamál, a Norse poem

  4. #124
    your avatar gives me epiliptic fits Adouglasmhor's Avatar
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    Nov 2006

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    The Ballad of Reading Gaol
    He did not wear his scarlet coat,
    For blood and wine are red,
    And blood and wine were on his hands
    When they found him with the dead,
    The poor dead woman whom he loved,
    And murdered in her bed.

    He walked amongst the Trial Men
    In a suit of shabby gray;
    A cricket cap was on his head,
    And his step seemed light and gay;
    But I never saw a man who looked
    So wistfully at the day.

    I never saw a man who looked
    With such a wistful eye
    Upon that little tent of blue
    Which prisoners call the sky,
    And at every drifting cloud that went
    With sails of silver by.

    I walked, with other souls in pain,
    Within another ring,
    And was wondering if the man had done
    A great or little thing,
    When a voice behind me whispered low,
    "That fellow's got to swing."

    Dear Christ! the very prison walls
    Suddenly seemed to reel,
    And the sky above my head became
    Like a casque of scorching steel;
    And, though I was a soul in pain,
    My pain I could not feel.

    I only knew what hunted thought
    Quickened his step, and why
    He looked upon the garish day
    With such a wistful eye;
    The man had killed the thing he loved,
    And so he had to die.

    Yet each man kills the thing he loves,
    By each let this be heard,
    Some do it with a bitter look,
    Some with a flattering word,
    The coward does it with a kiss,
    The brave man with a sword!

    Some kill their love when they are young,
    And some when they are old;
    Some strangle with the hands of Lust,
    Some with the hands of Gold:
    The kindest use a knife, because
    The dead so soon grow cold.

    Some love too little, some too long,
    Some sell, and others buy;
    Some do the deed with many tears,
    And some without a sigh:
    For each man kills the thing he loves,
    Yet each man does not die.

    He does not die a death of shame
    On a day of dark disgrace,
    Nor have a noose about his neck,
    Nor a cloth upon his face,
    Nor drop feet foremost through the floor
    Into an empty space.

    He does not sit with silent men
    Who watch him night and day;
    Who watch him when he tries to weep,
    And when he tries to pray;
    Who watch him lest himself should rob
    The prison of its prey.

    He does not wake at dawn to see
    Dread figures throng his room,
    The shivering Chaplain robed in white,
    The Sheriff stern with gloom,
    And the Governor all in shiny black,
    With the yellow face of Doom.

    He does not rise in piteous haste
    To put on convict-clothes,
    While some coarse-mouthed Doctor gloats, and notes
    Each new and nerve-twitched pose,
    Fingering a watch whose little ticks
    Are like horrible hammer-blows.

    He does not know that sickening thirst
    That sands one's throat, before
    The hangman with his gardener's gloves
    Slips through the padded door,
    And binds one with three leathern thongs,
    That the throat may thirst no more.

    He does not bend his head to hear
    The Burial Office read,
    Nor while the terror of his soul
    Tells him he is not dead,
    Cross his own coffin, as he moves
    Into the hideous shed.

    He does not stare upon the air
    Through a little roof of glass:
    He does not pray with lips of clay
    For his agony to pass;
    Nor feel upon his shuddering cheek
    The kiss of Caiaphas.

    Six weeks the guardsman walked the yard,
    In the suit of shabby gray:
    His cricket cap was on his head,
    And his step seemed light and gay,
    But I never saw a man who looked
    So wistfully at the day.

    I never saw a man who looked
    With such a wistful eye
    Upon that little tent of blue
    Which prisoners call the sky,
    And at every wandering cloud that trailed
    Its ravelled fleeces by.

    He did not wring his hands, as do
    Those witless men who dare
    To try to rear the changeling Hope
    In the cave of black Despair:
    He only looked upon the sun,
    And drank the morning air.

    He did not wring his hands nor weep,
    Nor did he peek or pine,
    But he drank the air as though it held
    Some healthful anodyne;
    With open mouth he drank the sun
    As though it had been wine!

    And I and all the souls in pain,
    Who tramped the other ring,
    Forgot if we ourselves had done
    A great or little thing,
    And watched with gaze of dull amaze
    The man who had to swing.

    For strange it was to see him pass
    With a step so light and gay,
    And strange it was to see him look
    So wistfully at the day,
    And strange it was to think that he
    Had such a debt to pay.

    For oak and elm have pleasant leaves
    That in the spring-time shoot:
    But grim to see is the gallows-tree,
    With its alder-bitten root,
    And, green or dry, a man must die
    Before it bears its fruit!

    The loftiest place is that seat of grace
    For which all worldlings try:
    But who would stand in hempen band
    Upon a scaffold high,
    And through a murderer's collar take
    His last look at the sky?

    It is sweet to dance to violins
    When Love and Life are fair:
    To dance to flutes, to dance to lutes
    Is delicate and rare:
    But it is not sweet with nimble feet
    To dance upon the air!

    So with curious eyes and sick surmise
    We watched him day by day,
    And wondered if each one of us
    Would end the self-same way,
    For none can tell to what red Hell
    His sightless soul may stray.

    At last the dead man walked no more
    Amongst the Trial Men,
    And I knew that he was standing up
    In the black dock's dreadful pen,
    And that never would I see his face
    In God's sweet world again.

    Like two doomed ships that pass in storm
    We had crossed each other's way:
    But we made no sign, we said no word,
    We had no word to say;
    For we did not meet in the holy night,
    But in the shameful day.

    A prison wall was round us both,
    Two outcast men we were:
    The world had thrust us from its heart,
    And God from out His care:
    And the iron gin that waits for Sin
    Had caught us in its snare.

    In Debtors' Yard the stones are hard,
    And the dripping wall is high,
    So it was there he took the air
    Beneath the leaden sky,
    And by each side a Warder walked,
    For fear the man might die.

    Or else he sat with those who watched
    His anguish night and day;
    Who watched him when he rose to weep,
    And when he crouched to pray;
    Who watched him lest himself should rob
    Their scaffold of its prey.

    The Governor was strong upon
    The Regulations Act:
    The Doctor said that Death was but
    A scientific fact:
    And twice a day the Chaplain called,
    And left a little tract.

    And twice a day he smoked his pipe,
    And drank his quart of beer:
    His soul was resolute, and held
    No hiding-place for fear;
    He often said that he was glad
    The hangman's hands were near.

    But why he said so strange a thing
    No Warder dared to ask:
    For he to whom a watcher's doom
    Is given as his task,
    Must set a lock upon his lips,
    And make his face a mask.

    Or else he might be moved, and try
    To comfort or console:
    And what should Human Pity do
    Pent up in Murderer's Hole?
    What word of grace in such a place
    Could help a brother's soul?

    With slouch and swing around the ring
    We trod the Fools' Parade!
    We did not care: we knew we were
    The Devil's Own Brigade:
    And shaven head and feet of lead
    Make a merry masquerade.

    We tore the tarry rope to shreds
    With blunt and bleeding nails;
    We rubbed the doors, and scrubbed the floors,
    And cleaned the shining rails:
    And, rank by rank, we soaped the plank,
    And clattered with the pails.

    We sewed the sacks, we broke the stones,
    We turned the dusty drill:
    We banged the tins, and bawled the hymns,
    And sweated on the mill:
    But in the heart of every man
    Terror was lying still.

    So still it lay that every day
    Crawled like a weed-clogged wave:
    And we forgot the bitter lot
    That waits for fool and knave,
    Till once, as we tramped in from work,
    We passed an open grave.

    With yawning mouth the yellow hole
    Gaped for a living thing;
    The very mud cried out for blood
    To the thirsty asphalte ring:
    And we knew that ere one dawn grew fair
    Some prisoner had to swing.

    Right in we went, with soul intent
    On Death and Dread and Doom:
    The hangman, with his little bag,
    Went shuffling through the gloom:
    And each man trembled as he crept
    Into his numbered tomb.

    That night the empty corridors
    Were full of forms of Fear,
    And up and down the iron town
    Stole feet we could not hear,
    And through the bars that hide the stars
    White faces seemed to peer.

    He lay as one who lies and dreams
    In a pleasant meadow-land,
    The watchers watched him as he slept,
    And could not understand
    How one could sleep so sweet a sleep
    With a hangman close at hand.

    But there is no sleep when men must weep
    Who never yet have wept:
    So we—the fool, the fraud, the knave—
    That endless vigil kept,
    And through each brain on hands of pain
    Another's terror crept.

    Alas! it is a fearful thing
    To feel another's guilt!
    For, right within, the sword of Sin
    Pierced to its poisoned hilt,
    And as molten lead were the tears we shed
    For the blood we had not spilt.

    The Warders with their shoes of felt
    Crept by each padlocked door,
    And peeped and saw, with eyes of awe,
    Gray figures on the floor,
    And wondered why men knelt to pray
    Who never prayed before.

    All through the night we knelt and prayed,
    Mad mourners of a corse!
    The troubled plumes of midnight were
    The plumes upon a hearse:
    And bitter wine upon a sponge
    Was the savour of Remorse.

    The gray cock crew, the red cock crew,
    But never came the day:
    And crooked shapes of Terror crouched,
    In the corners where we lay:
    And each evil sprite that walks by night
    Before us seemed to play.

    They glided past, they glided fast,
    Like travellers through a mist:
    They mocked the moon in a rigadoon
    Of delicate turn and twist,
    And with formal pace and loathsome grace
    The phantoms kept their tryst.

    With mop and mow, we saw them go,
    Slim shadows hand in hand:
    About, about, in ghostly rout
    They trod a saraband:
    And damned grotesques made arabesques,
    Like the wind upon the sand!

    With the pirouettes of marionettes,
    They tripped on pointed tread:
    But with flutes of Fear they filled the ear,
    As their grisly masque they led,
    And loud they sang, and long they sang,
    For they sang to wake the dead.

    "Oho!" they cried, "the world is wide,
    But fettered limbs go lame!
    And once, or twice, to throw the dice
    Is a gentlemanly game,
    But he does not win who plays with Sin
    In the Secret House of Shame."

    No things of air these antics were,
    That frolicked with such glee:
    To men whose lives were held in gyves,
    And whose feet might not go free,
    Ah! wounds of Christ! they were living things,
    Most terrible to see.

    Around, around, they waltzed and wound;
    Some wheeled in smirking pairs;
    With the mincing step of a demirep
    Some sidled up the stairs:
    And with subtle sneer, and fawning leer,
    Each helped us at our prayers.

    The morning wind began to moan,
    But still the night went on:
    Through its giant loom the web of gloom
    Crept till each thread was spun:
    And, as we prayed, we grew afraid
    Of the Justice of the Sun.

    The moaning wind went wandering round
    The weeping prison-wall:
    Till like a wheel of turning steel
    We felt the minutes crawl:
    O moaning wind! what had we done
    To have such a seneschal?

    At last I saw the shadowed bars,
    Like a lattice wrought in lead,
    Move right across the whitewashed wall
    That faced my three-plank bed,
    And I knew that somewhere in the world
    God's dreadful dawn was red.

    At six o'clock we cleaned our cells,
    At seven all was still,
    But the sough and swing of a mighty wing
    The prison seemed to fill,
    For the Lord of Death with icy breath
    Had entered in to kill.

    He did not pass in purple pomp,
    Nor ride a moon-white steed.
    Three yards of cord and a sliding board
    Are all the gallows' need:
    So with rope of shame the Herald came
    To do the secret deed.

    We were as men who through a fen
    Of filthy darkness grope:
    We did not dare to breathe a prayer,
    Or to give our anguish scope:
    Something was dead in each of us,
    And what was dead was Hope.

    For Man's grim Justice goes its way
    And will not swerve aside:
    It slays the weak, it slays the strong,
    It has a deadly stride:
    With iron heel it slays the strong,
    The monstrous parricide!

    We waited for the stroke of eight:
    Each tongue was thick with thirst:
    For the stroke of eight is the stroke of Fate
    That makes a man accursed,
    And Fate will use a running noose
    For the best man and the worst.

    We had no other thing to do,
    Save to wait for the sign to come:
    So, like things of stone in a valley lone,
    Quiet we sat and dumb:
    But each man's heart beat thick and quick,
    Like a madman on a drum!

    With sudden shock the prison-clock
    Smote on the shivering air,
    And from all the gaol rose up a wail
    Of impotent despair,
    Like the sound the frightened marshes hear
    From some leper in his lair.

    And as one sees most fearful things
    In the crystal of a dream,
    We saw the greasy hempen rope
    Hooked to the blackened beam,
    And heard the prayer the hangman's snare
    Strangled into a scream.

    And all the woe that moved him so
    That he gave that bitter cry,
    And the wild regrets, and the bloody sweats,
    None knew so well as I:
    For he who lives more lives than one
    More deaths than one must die.

    There is no chapel on the day
    On which they hang a man:
    The Chaplain's heart is far too sick,
    Or his face is far too wan,
    Or there is that written in his eyes
    Which none should look upon.

    So they kept us close till nigh on noon,
    And then they rang the bell,
    And the Warders with their jingling keys
    Opened each listening cell,
    And down the iron stair we tramped,
    Each from his separate Hell.

    Out into God's sweet air we went,
    But not in wonted way,
    For this man's face was white with fear,
    And that man's face was gray,
    And I never saw sad men who looked
    So wistfully at the day.

    I never saw sad men who looked
    With such a wistful eye
    Upon that little tent of blue
    We prisoners called the sky,
    And at every careless cloud that passed
    In happy freedom by.

    But there were those amongst us all
    Who walked with downcast head,
    And knew that, had each got his due,
    They should have died instead:
    He had but killed a thing that lived,
    Whilst they had killed the dead.

    For he who sins a second time
    Wakes a dead soul to pain,
    And draws it from its spotted shroud,
    And makes it bleed again,
    And makes it bleed great gouts of blood,
    And makes it bleed in vain!

    Like ape or clown, in monstrous garb
    With crooked arrows starred,
    Silently we went round and round
    The slippery asphalte yard;
    Silently we went round and round,
    And no man spoke a word.

    Silently we went round and round,
    And through each hollow mind
    The Memory of dreadful things
    Rushed like a dreadful wind,
    And Horror stalked before each man,
    And Terror crept behind.

    The Warders strutted up and down,
    And kept their herd of brutes,
    Their uniforms were spick and span,
    And they wore their Sunday suits,
    But we knew the work they had been at,
    By the quicklime on their boots.

    For where a grave had opened wide,
    There was no grave at all:
    Only a stretch of mud and sand
    By the hideous prison-wall,
    And a little heap of burning lime,
    That the man should have his pall.

    For he has a pall, this wretched man,
    Such as few men can claim:
    Deep down below a prison-yard,
    Naked for greater shame,
    He lies, with fetters on each foot,
    Wrapt in a sheet of flame!

    And all the while the burning lime
    Eats flesh and bone away,
    It eats the brittle bone by night,
    And the soft flesh by day,
    It eats the flesh and bone by turns,
    But it eats the heart alway.

    For three long years they will not sow
    Or root or seedling there:
    For three long years the unblessed spot
    Will sterile be and bare,
    And look upon the wondering sky
    With unreproachful stare.

    They think a murderer's heart would taint
    Each simple seed they sow.
    It is not true! God's kindly earth
    Is kindlier than men know,
    And the red rose would but glow more red,
    The white rose whiter blow.

    Out of his mouth a red, red rose!
    Out of his heart a white!
    For who can say by what strange way,
    Christ brings His will to light,
    Since the barren staff the pilgrim bore
    Bloomed in the great Pope's sight?

    But neither milk-white rose nor red
    May bloom in prison air;
    The shard, the pebble, and the flint,
    Are what they give us there:
    For flowers have been known to heal
    A common man's despair.

    So never will wine-red rose or white,
    Petal by petal, fall
    On that stretch of mud and sand that lies
    By the hideous prison-wall,
    To tell the men who tramp the yard
    That God's Son died for all.

    Yet though the hideous prison-wall
    Still hems him round and round,
    And a spirit may not walk by night
    That is with fetters bound,
    And a spirit may but weep that lies
    In such unholy ground,

    He is at peace—this wretched man—
    At peace, or will be soon:
    There is no thing to make him mad,
    Nor does Terror walk at noon,
    For the lampless Earth in which he lies
    Has neither Sun nor Moon.

    They hanged him as a beast is hanged:
    They did not even toll
    A requiem that might have brought
    Rest to his startled soul,
    But hurriedly they took him out,
    And hid him in a hole.

    They stripped him of his canvas clothes,
    And gave him to the flies:
    They mocked the swollen purple throat,
    And the stark and staring eyes:
    And with laughter loud they heaped the shroud
    In which their convict lies.

    The Chaplain would not kneel to pray
    By his dishonoured grave:
    Nor mark it with that blessed Cross
    That Christ for sinners gave,
    Because the man was one of those
    Whom Christ came down to save.

    Yet all is well; he has but passed
    To Life's appointed bourne:
    And alien tears will fill for him
    Pity's long-broken urn,
    For his mourners will be outcast men,
    And outcasts always mourn.

    I know not whether Laws be right,
    Or whether Laws be wrong;
    All that we know who lie in gaol
    Is that the wall is strong;
    And that each day is like a year,
    A year whose days are long.

    But this I know, that every Law
    That men have made for Man,
    Since first Man took his brother's life,
    And the sad world began,
    But straws the wheat and saves the chaff
    With a most evil fan.

    This too I know—and wise it were
    If each could know the same—
    That every prison that men build
    Is built with bricks of shame,
    And bound with bars lest Christ should see
    How men their brothers maim.

    With bars they blur the gracious moon,
    And blind the goodly sun:
    And they do well to hide their Hell,
    For in it things are done
    That Son of God nor son of Man
    Ever should look upon!

    The vilest deeds like poison weeds
    Bloom well in prison-air:
    It is only what is good in Man
    That wastes and withers there:
    Pale Anguish keeps the heavy gate,
    And the Warder is Despair.

    For they starve the little frightened child
    Till it weeps both night and day:
    And they scourge the weak, and flog the fool,
    And gibe the old and gray,
    And some grow mad, and all grow bad,
    And none a word may say.

    Each narrow cell in which we dwell
    Is a foul and dark latrine,
    And the fetid breath of living Death
    Chokes up each grated screen,
    And all, but Lust, is turned to dust
    In Humanity's machine.

    The brackish water that we drink
    Creeps with a loathsome slime,
    And the bitter bread they weigh in scales
    Is full of chalk and lime,
    And Sleep will not lie down, but walks
    Wild-eyed, and cries to Time.

    But though lean Hunger and green Thirst
    Like asp with adder fight,
    We have little care of prison fare,
    For what chills and kills outright
    Is that every stone one lifts by day
    Becomes one's heart by night.

    With midnight always in one's heart,
    And twilight in one's cell,
    We turn the crank, or tear the rope,
    Each in his separate Hell,
    And the silence is more awful far
    Than the sound of a brazen bell.

    And never a human voice comes near
    To speak a gentle word:
    And the eye that watches through the door
    Is pitiless and hard:
    And by all forgot, we rot and rot,
    With soul and body marred.

    And thus we rust Life's iron chain
    Degraded and alone:
    And some men curse, and some men weep,
    And some men make no moan:
    But God's eternal Laws are kind
    And break the heart of stone.

    And every human heart that breaks,
    In prison-cell or yard,
    Is as that broken box that gave
    Its treasure to the Lord,
    And filled the unclean leper's house
    With the scent of costliest nard.

    Ah! happy they whose hearts can break
    And peace of pardon win!
    How else may man make straight his plan
    And cleanse his soul from Sin?
    How else but through a broken heart
    May Lord Christ enter in?

    And he of the swollen purple throat,
    And the stark and staring eyes,
    Waits for the holy hands that took
    The Thief to Paradise;
    And a broken and a contrite heart
    The Lord will not despise.

    The man in red who reads the Law
    Gave him three weeks of life,
    Three little weeks in which to heal
    His soul of his soul's strife,
    And cleanse from every blot of blood
    The hand that held the knife.

    And with tears of blood he cleansed the hand,
    The hand that held the steel:
    For only blood can wipe out blood,
    And only tears can heal:
    And the crimson stain that was of Cain
    Became Christ's snow-white seal.

    In Reading gaol by Reading town
    There is a pit of shame,
    And in it lies a wretched man
    Eaten by teeth of flame,
    In a burning winding-sheet he lies,
    And his grave has got no name.

    And there, till Christ call forth the dead,
    In silence let him lie:
    No need to waste the foolish tear,
    Or heave the windy sigh:
    The man had killed the thing he loved,
    And so he had to die.

    And all men kill the thing they love,
    By all let this be heard,
    Some do it with a bitter look,
    Some with a flattering word,
    The coward does it with a kiss,
    The brave man with a sword.
    Don’t say, “It’s been a good day” till sundown.
    Don’t say, “She’s a good wife” till she’s buried.
    Don’t say, “It’s a good sword” till you’ve tested it.
    Don’t say, “She’s a good girl” till she’s married off.
    Don’t say, “The ice is safe” till you’ve crossed it.
    Don’t say, “The beer is good” till you’ve drunk the last of it.

    From Hávamál, a Norse poem

  5. #125
    My ballsack is half full Üser Friendly's Avatar
    Join Date
    Jan 1970

    Yes | No


    A robin red-breast in a cage
    Puts all heaven in a rage

    William Blake
    die dümmsten Bauern haben die dicksten Kartoffeln

  6. #126
    not long for this world nihilist's Avatar
    Join Date
    Dec 2002

    Yes | No


    Quote Originally Posted by Josh 2.0 View Post
    He who would give his left nut
    also takes it in the butt

  7. #127
    not long for this world nihilist's Avatar
    Join Date
    Dec 2002

    Yes | No


    Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
    Last edited by nihilist; 12th March 14 at 04:05 AM.

  8. #128
    My ballsack is half full Üser Friendly's Avatar
    Join Date
    Jan 1970

    Yes | No


    There once was a poster named Reese,

    Who was a dick.
    die dümmsten Bauern haben die dicksten Kartoffeln

  9. #129
    Unintentional Rayp'ist Spade: The Real Snake's Avatar
    Join Date
    Jan 2007

    Yes | No

    Default Poetry Corner

    Bravo NoB

    Sent by telekinesis via Cerebro
    Quote Originally Posted by Feryk
    What Snake Said
    Quote Originally Posted by Lily
    Snake is also correct about EVERYTHING.

  10. #130
    not long for this world nihilist's Avatar
    Join Date
    Dec 2002

    Yes | No


    a man named Nob gets a plus rep
    but doofa is also correct

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