Written by
Robert William Service |
"Miss Rosemary," I dourly said,
"Our balance verges on the red,
We must cut down our overhead.
One of the staff will have to go.
There's Mister Jones, he's mighty slow,
Although he does his best, I know.
"A deer old man; I like him well,
But age, alas! will always tell.
Miss Rosemary, please ring the bell
And tell old Jones to step this way .
.
.
Oh dear, oh dear, it isn't gay
To say the things I have to say.
"Come in and sit down, Mister Jones.
"
He thanks me in sepulchral tones.
Poor chap! I hear his creaking bones.
"Have a cigar? And how's your wife?
What's that! You're fearing for her life -
A cancer and the surgeon's knife.
.
.
.
"Yes, operations are so dear,
But it's your comfort and your cheer
To know your job's so steady here.
"
These are his words; so meek and mild,
He looks just like a simple child .
.
.
Go! darn it! Suddenly I'm riled.
And so I say: "That's just too bad.
But Mister Jones.
it's very sad,
You know what losses we have had.
We must cut down in times like these,
So here's a cheque, Oh take it please -
'Twill help to pay your doctor's fees.
"And just to show how I appraise
Your work - despite these doleful days
I'm giving you .
.
.
a little raise.
"
Said Rosemary: "Old Jones is crying.
"
Thought I: "Yes, each week I'll be sighing,
When from my pocket I am prying
Ten bucks to keep his wife from dying.
"
|
Written by
Rudyard Kipling |
Not in the thick of the fight,
Not in the press of the odds,
Do the heroes come to their height,
Or we know the demi-gods.
That stands over till peace.
We can only perceive
Men returned from the seas,
Very grateful for leave.
They grant us sudden days
Snatched from their business of war;
But we are too close to appraise
What manner of men they are.
And, whether their names go down
With age-kept victories,
Or whether they battle and drown
Unreckoned, is hid from our eyes.
They are too near to be great,
But our children shall understand
When and how our fate
Was changed, and by whose hand.
Our children shall measure their worth.
We are content to be blind .
.
.
But we know that we walk on a new-born earth
With the saviours of mankind.
|
Written by
Joseph Brodsky |
.
.
.
and when "the future" is uttered, swarms of mice
rush out of the Russian language and gnaw a piece
of ripened memory which is twice
as hole-ridden as real cheese.
After all these years it hardly matters who
or what stands in the corner, hidden by heavy drapes,
and your mind resounds not with a seraphic "doh",
only their rustle.
Life, that no one dares
to appraise, like that gift horse's mouth,
bares its teeth in a grin at each
encounter.
What gets left of a man amounts
to a part.
To his spoken part.
To a part of speech.
|