A little ink more or less! It surely can't matter? Even the sky and the opulent sea, The plains and the hills, aloof, Hear the uproar of all these books. But it is only a little ink more or less. What? You define me God with thee trinkets? Can my misery meal on an ordered walking Of surpliced numbskulls? And a fanfare of lights? Or even upon the measured pulpiting Of the familiar false and true? Is this God? Where, then, is hell? Show me some bastard mushroom Sprung from a pollution of blood. It is better. Where is God? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...HE'D BE NOTHING BUT HIS VIOLIN by MARY KYLE DALLAS THE ROCK OF CASHEL by AUBREY DE VERE LINES FROM A PLUTOCRATIC POETASTER TO A DITCH-DIGGER by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS BRUCE: HOW THE BRUCE CROSSED LOCH LOMOND by JOHN BARBOUR THE TRIUMPHS OF THY CONQUERING POWER by WILLIAM HILEY BATHURST SUPPLICATION by MARGARET H. BRANDON |