THOUGH constantly we're in the mire, We shine and sparkle with our fire; Part of the verb 'to speak' we need, And yet no words from us proceed. The annals of the Inquisition Reveal too well our awful mission; In what they call the 'good old days," Our patronesses won high praise. Ii is our business to convey Men, beasts, and chattels day by day; You often bear us near your heart, And would be loth from us to part. Though never weary with our speed, Full often we are tired indeed; A tribe of insects, most minute, Receive from us a name to suit. Long since we used to condescend Our aid in cookery to lend. We guide the vessel in its course, And multiply your puny force. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TIPPERARY: 2. AS THE TRANSLATORS WOULD HAVE INTERLINED IT . . . by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS THE ISLAND OF THE SCOTS by WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE AYTOUN RUSTIC CHILDHOOD by WILLIAM BARNES SONNET: 2 by RICHARD BARNFIELD PSALM 102 by OLD TESTAMENT BIBLE ADONIS by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT |