Robert Browning
It was roses, roses, all the way,
With myrtle mixed in my path like mad:
The house - roofs seemed to heave and sway,
The church - spires flamed, such flags they had,
A year ago on this very day.
The air broke into a mist with bells,
The old walls rocked with the crowd and cries.
Had I said, "Good folk, mere noise repels -
But give me your sun from yonder skies!"
They had answered, "And afterward, what else?"
Alack, it was I who leaped at the sun
To give it my loving friends to keep!
Naught man could do, have I left undone:
And you see my harvest, what I reap
This very day, now a year is run.
There`s nobody on the house - tops now -
Just a palsied few at the windows set;
For the best of the sight is, all allow,
At the Shambles` Gate - or, better yet,
By the very scaffold`s foot, I trow.
I go in the rain, and, more than needs,
A rope cuts both my wrists behind;
And I think, by the feel, my forehead bleeds,
For they
fling, whoever has a mind,
Stones at me for my year`s misdeeds.
Thus I entered, and thus I go!
In triumphs, people have dropped down dead.
"Paid by the world, what dost thou owe
Me?" - God might question; now instead,
`Tis God shall repay: I am safer so.
by Robert Browning (1812 - 1889)
For some reason this reminds me of the uncalled for, persecution of President Bush, in the Aftermath of Hurricane Katrina.
Good night Miss Feather and Fellow Lairites . . . See you tomorrow.
