Classic and Contemporary Poetry
SOLILOQUY OF THE SPANISH CLOISTER, by ROBERT BROWNING Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: Gr-r-r - there go, my heart's abhorrence! Last Line: Ave, virgo! Gr-r-r -- you swine! Subject(s): Hate; Hypocrisy; Villains In Literature | ||||||||
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! 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? Whew! We'll have our platter burnished, Laid with care on our own shelf! With a fire-new spoon we're furnished, And a goblet for ourself, Rinsed like something sacrificial Ere't is fit to touch our chaps -- Marked with L for our initial! (He-he! There his lily snaps!) 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 deed eye glow, Bright as 't were a Barbary corsair's? (That is, if he'd let is show!) 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. 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! 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? 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? 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 gratia, Ave, Virgo! Gr-r-r -- you swine! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...VILLON'S STRAIGHT TIP TO ALL CROSS COVES by FRANCOIS VILLON EPITAPH ON A TYRANT by WYSTAN HUGH AUDEN MY LAST DUCHESS; FERRRA by ROBERT BROWNING PORPHYRIA'S LOVER by ROBERT BROWNING MACAVITY: THE MYSTERY CAT by THOMAS STEARNS ELIOT A SMUGGLER'S SONG by RUDYARD KIPLING BASE DETAILS by SIEGFRIED SASSOON SONNET: 94 by WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE LORD BARRENSTOCK by FLORENCE MARGARET SMITH CHILDE ROLAND TO THE DARK TOWER CAME' by ROBERT BROWNING |
|