| Revision as of 09:06, 8 June 2007 editConfuciusOrnis (talk | contribs)5,598 editsNo edit summary← Previous edit |
Revision as of 10:37, 8 June 2007 edit undoConfuciusOrnis (talk | contribs)5,598 editsNo edit summaryNext edit → |
| Line 1: |
Line 1: |
|
{{Boxboxtop|Stuff|right}} |
|
{{userboxtop|Stuff}} |
|
{{user en}} |
|
{{user en}} |
|
{{User CommonwealthE}} |
|
{{User CommonwealthE}} |
| Line 5: |
Line 5: |
|
{{User:Disavian/Userboxes/evolution}} |
|
{{User:Disavian/Userboxes/evolution}} |
|
{{User:Tal642/my userboxes/SanerWorldNoReligion}} |
|
{{User:Tal642/my userboxes/SanerWorldNoReligion}} |
|
|
|
|
<div style="float: left; border:solid {{{1|#6ef7a7}}} 1px; margin: 1px;"> |
|
<div style="float: left; border:solid {{{1|#6ef7a7}}} 1px; margin: 1px;"> |
|
{| cellspacing="0" style="width: 237px; background: {{{2|#c5fcdc}}};" |
|
{| cellspacing="0" style="width: 237px; background: {{{2|#c5fcdc}}};" |
| Line 11: |
Line 10: |
|
| style="font-size: 8pt; padding: 4pt; line-height: 1.25em; color: black;" | {{{4|This ] rejects as ] all forms of spirituality or religion.}}} |
|
| style="font-size: 8pt; padding: 4pt; line-height: 1.25em; color: black;" | {{{4|This ] rejects as ] all forms of spirituality or religion.}}} |
|
|}</div> |
|
|}</div> |
|
<!--<noinclude>]</noinclude>--> |
|
|
<noinclude>]</noinclude> |
|
<noinclude>]</noinclude> |
|
|
{{userboxbottom}} |
|
|
|
|
|
...nothing to say here's a poem instead... |
|
|
|
|
|
'''Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister''' <br /> |
|
|
Robert Browning<br /> |
|
|
<br /> |
|
|
I<br /> |
|
|
GR-R-R—there go, my heart's abhorrence! <br /> |
|
|
Water your damned flower-pots, do! <br /> |
|
|
If hate killed men, Brother Lawrence, <br /> |
|
|
God's blood, would not mine kill you! <br /> |
|
|
What? your myrtle-bush wants trimming? <br /> |
|
|
Oh, that rose has prior claims— <br /> |
|
|
Needs its leaden vase filled brimming? <br /> |
|
|
Hell dry you up with its flames! <br /> |
|
|
<br /> |
|
|
II <br /> |
|
|
At the meal we sit together: <br /> |
|
|
Salve tibi! I must hear <br /> |
|
|
Wise talk of the kind of weather, <br /> |
|
|
Sort of season, time of year: <br /> |
|
|
Not a plenteous cork-crop: scarcely <br /> |
|
|
Dare we hope oak-galls, I doubt: <br /> |
|
|
What's the Latin name for "parsley"? <br /> |
|
|
What's the Greek name for Swine's Snout? <br /> |
|
|
<br /> |
|
|
III <br /> |
|
|
Whew! We'll have our platter burnished, <br /> |
|
|
Laid with care on our own sheld! <br /> |
|
|
With a fire-new spoon we're furnished, <br /> |
|
|
And a goblet for oneself, <br /> |
|
|
Rinsed like something sacrificial <br /> |
|
|
Ere 'tis fit to touch our chaps— <br /> |
|
|
Marked with L. for our initial! <br /> |
|
|
(He-he! There his lily snaps!) <br /> |
|
|
<br /> |
|
|
IV <br /> |
|
|
Saint, forsooth! While brown Dolores <br /> |
|
|
Squats outside the Convent bank <br /> |
|
|
With Sanchicha, telling stories, <br /> |
|
|
Steeping tresses in the tank, <br /> |
|
|
Blue-black, lustrous, thick like horsehairs, <br /> |
|
|
—Can't I see his dead eye glow, <br /> |
|
|
Bright as 'twere a Barbary corsair's? <br /> |
|
|
(That is, if he'd let it show!) <br /> |
|
|
<br /> |
|
|
V <br /> |
|
|
When he finishes refection, <br /> |
|
|
Knife and fork he never lays <br /> |
|
|
Cross-wise to my recollection, <br /> |
|
|
As do I, in Jesu's praise. <br /> |
|
|
I the Trinity illustrate, <br /> |
|
|
Drinking watered orange-pulp— <br /> |
|
|
In three sips the Arian frustrate; <br /> |
|
|
While he drains his at one gulp. <br /> |
|
|
<br /> |
|
|
VI <br /> |
|
|
Oh, those melons? If he's able <br /> |
|
|
We're to have a feast! so nice! <br /> |
|
|
One goes to the Abbot's table, <br /> |
|
|
All of us get each a slice. <br /> |
|
|
How go on your flowers? None double? <br /> |
|
|
Not one fruit-sort can you spy? <br /> |
|
|
Strange!—And I, too, at such trouble, <br /> |
|
|
Keep them close-nipped on the sly! <br /> |
|
|
<br /> |
|
|
VII <br /> |
|
|
There's a great text in Galatians, <br /> |
|
|
Once you trip on it, entails <br /> |
|
|
Twenty-nine distinct damnations, <br /> |
|
|
One sure, if another fails: <br /> |
|
|
If I trip him just a-dying, <br /> |
|
|
Sure of heaven as sure can be, <br /> |
|
|
Spin him round and send him flying <br /> |
|
|
Off to hell, a Manichee? <br /> |
|
|
<br /> |
|
|
VIII <br /> |
|
|
Or my scrofulous French novel <br /> |
|
|
On gray paper with blunt type! <br /> |
|
|
Simply glance at it, you grovel <br /> |
|
|
Hand and foot in Belial's gripe: <br /> |
|
|
If I double down its pages <br /> |
|
|
At the woeful sixteenth print, <br /> |
|
|
When he gathers his greengages, <br /> |
|
|
Ope a sieve and slip it in't? <br /> |
|
|
<br /> |
|
|
IX <br /> |
|
|
Or, there's Satan!—one might venture <br /> |
|
|
Pledge one's soul to him, yet leave <br /> |
|
|
Such a flaw in the indenture <br /> |
|
|
As he'd miss till, past retrieve, <br /> |
|
|
Blasted lay that rose-acacia <br /> |
|
|
We're so proud of! Hy, Zy, Hine. <br /> |
|
|
'St, there's Vespers! Plena gratiâ <br /> |
|
|
Ave, Virgo! Gr-r-r—you swine!<br /> |
.gif){kind=small}
