Epigrams
Richard Aldington
(A Conceit)
The noon sky, a distended vast blue sail;The sea, a parquet of coloured wood;The rock-flowers, sinister indigo sponges;Lavender leaping up, scented sulphur flames;Little butterflies, resting shut-winged, fluttering,Eyelids winking over watchet eyes.
The noon sky, a distended vast blue sail;The sea, a parquet of coloured wood;The rock-flowers, sinister indigo sponges;Lavender leaping up, scented sulphur flames;Little butterflies, resting shut-winged, fluttering,Eyelids winking over watchet eyes.
The noon sky, a distended vast blue sail;The sea, a parquet of coloured wood;The rock-flowers, sinister indigo sponges;Lavender leaping up, scented sulphur flames;Little butterflies, resting shut-winged, fluttering,Eyelids winking over watchet eyes.
The noon sky, a distended vast blue sail;
The sea, a parquet of coloured wood;
The rock-flowers, sinister indigo sponges;
Lavender leaping up, scented sulphur flames;
Little butterflies, resting shut-winged, fluttering,
Eyelids winking over watchet eyes.
They say we like London—O Hell!—They tellUs we shall never sellOur works (as if we cared).We’re “high brow” and long-hairedBecause we don’tCheat and cant.We can’t rhythm; we can’t rhyme,Just because their rag-timeBores us.These twangling lyrists are too pure for sense;So they chime,RhymeAnd time,And Slime,All praise their virtuous impotence.
They say we like London—O Hell!—They tellUs we shall never sellOur works (as if we cared).We’re “high brow” and long-hairedBecause we don’tCheat and cant.We can’t rhythm; we can’t rhyme,Just because their rag-timeBores us.These twangling lyrists are too pure for sense;So they chime,RhymeAnd time,And Slime,All praise their virtuous impotence.
They say we like London—O Hell!—They tellUs we shall never sellOur works (as if we cared).We’re “high brow” and long-hairedBecause we don’tCheat and cant.We can’t rhythm; we can’t rhyme,Just because their rag-timeBores us.
They say we like London—O Hell!—
They tell
Us we shall never sell
Our works (as if we cared).
We’re “high brow” and long-haired
Because we don’t
Cheat and cant.
We can’t rhythm; we can’t rhyme,
Just because their rag-time
Bores us.
These twangling lyrists are too pure for sense;So they chime,RhymeAnd time,And Slime,All praise their virtuous impotence.
These twangling lyrists are too pure for sense;
So they chime,
Rhyme
And time,
And Slime,
All praise their virtuous impotence.
I know a woman who is naturalAs any simple cannibal;This is a great misfortune, for her lotIs to reside with people who are not.
I know a woman who is naturalAs any simple cannibal;This is a great misfortune, for her lotIs to reside with people who are not.
I know a woman who is naturalAs any simple cannibal;This is a great misfortune, for her lotIs to reside with people who are not.
I know a woman who is natural
As any simple cannibal;
This is a great misfortune, for her lot
Is to reside with people who are not.