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	...nothing to say here's a poem instead...		...nothing to say, here's a poem instead...

	'''Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister''' <br />		'''Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister''' <br />
	Robert Browning<br />		]<br />
	<br />		<br />
	I<br />		I<br />

Revision as of 10:38, 8 June 2007

Stuff

This user is a native speaker of the English language.

This user uses Commonwealth spelling.

This user is of multiple ancestries.

This user understands biological evolution.

This user believes the world would be a happier, safer and saner place without religion.

atheist

This user rejects as invalid all forms of spirituality or religion.

...nothing to say, here's a poem instead...

Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister
Robert Browning

I
GR-R-R—there go, my heart's abhorrence!
Water your damned flower-pots, do!
If hate killed men, Brother Lawrence,
God's blood, would not mine kill you!
What? your myrtle-bush wants trimming?
Oh, that rose has prior claims—
Needs its leaden vase filled brimming?
Hell dry you up with its flames!

II
At the meal we sit together:
Salve tibi! I must hear
Wise talk of the kind of weather,
Sort of season, time of year:
Not a plenteous cork-crop: scarcely
Dare we hope oak-galls, I doubt:
What's the Latin name for "parsley"?
What's the Greek name for Swine's Snout?

III
Whew! We'll have our platter burnished,
Laid with care on our own sheld!
With a fire-new spoon we're furnished,
And a goblet for oneself,
Rinsed like something sacrificial
Ere 'tis fit to touch our chaps—
Marked with L. for our initial!
(He-he! There his lily snaps!)

IV
Saint, forsooth! While brown Dolores
Squats outside the Convent bank
With Sanchicha, telling stories,
Steeping tresses in the tank,
Blue-black, lustrous, thick like horsehairs,
—Can't I see his dead eye glow,
Bright as 'twere a Barbary corsair's?
(That is, if he'd let it show!)

V
When he finishes refection,
Knife and fork he never lays
Cross-wise to my recollection,
As do I, in Jesu's praise.
I the Trinity illustrate,
Drinking watered orange-pulp—
In three sips the Arian frustrate;
While he drains his at one gulp.

VI
Oh, those melons? If he's able
We're to have a feast! so nice!
One goes to the Abbot's table,
All of us get each a slice.
How go on your flowers? None double?
Not one fruit-sort can you spy?
Strange!—And I, too, at such trouble,
Keep them close-nipped on the sly!

VII
There's a great text in Galatians,
Once you trip on it, entails
Twenty-nine distinct damnations,
One sure, if another fails:
If I trip him just a-dying,
Sure of heaven as sure can be,
Spin him round and send him flying
Off to hell, a Manichee?

VIII
Or my scrofulous French novel
On gray paper with blunt type!
Simply glance at it, you grovel
Hand and foot in Belial's gripe:
If I double down its pages
At the woeful sixteenth print,
When he gathers his greengages,
Ope a sieve and slip it in't?

IX
Or, there's Satan!—one might venture
Pledge one's soul to him, yet leave
Such a flaw in the indenture
As he'd miss till, past retrieve,
Blasted lay that rose-acacia
We're so proud of! Hy, Zy, Hine.
'St, there's Vespers! Plena gratiâ
Ave, Virgo! Gr-r-r—you swine!

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