Best Famous Disdains Poems

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Written by Rainer Maria Rilke | Duino Elegies The First Elegy Who if I cried out would hear me among the angels' hierarchies? and even if one of them pressed me suddenly against his heart: I would be consumed I that overwhelming existence. For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror which we still are just able to endure and we are so awed because it serenely disdains to annihilate us. Every angel is terrifying. And so I hold myself back and swallow the call-note Of my dark sobbing. Ah whom can we ever turn to in our need? Not angels not humans and already the knowing animals are aware that we are not really at home in our interpreted world. Perhaps there remains for us some tree on a hillside which every day we can take into our vision; there remains for us yesterday's street and the loyalty of a habit so much at ease when it stayed with us that it moved in and never left. Oh and night: there is night when a wind full of infinite space gnaws at out faces. Whom would it not remain for-that longed-after mildly disillusioning presence which the solitary heart so painfully meets. Is it any less difficult for lovers? But they keep on using each other to hide their own fate. Don't you know yet? Fling the emptiness out of your arms Into the spaces we breathe; perhaps the birds will feel the expanded air with more passionate flying. Yes-the springtime needed you. Often a star was waiting for you to notice it. A wave rolled toward you out of the distant past or as you walked under an open window a violin yielded itself to your hearing. All this was mission. But could you accomplish it? Weren't you always Distracted by expectation as if every event announced a beloved? (Where can you find a place to keep her with all the huge strange thoughts inside you going and coming and often staying all night.) But when you feel longing sing of women in love; for their famous passion is still not immortal. Sing of women abandoned and desolate (you envy them almost) who could love so much more purely than those who were gratified. Begin again and again the never-attainable praising; remember: the hero lives on; even his downfall was merely a pretext for achieving his final birth. But Nature spent and exhausted takes lovers back into herself as if there were not enough strength to create them a second time. Have you imagined Gaspara Stampa intensely enough so that any girl deserted by her beloved might be inspired by that fierce example of soaring objectless love and might say to herself Perhaps I can be like her ? Shouldn't this most ancient suffering finally grow more fruitful for us? Isn't it time that we lovingly freed ourselves from the beloved and quivering endured: as the arrow endures the bowstring's tension so that gathered in the snap of release it can be more than itself. For there is no place where we can remain. Voices. Voices. Listen my heart as only Saints have listened: until the gigantic call lifted them off the ground; yet they kept on impossibly kneeling and didn't notice at all: so complete was their listening. Not that you could endure God's voice-far from it. But listen to the voice of the wind and the ceaseless message that forms itself out of silence. It is murmuring toward you now from those who died young. Didn't their fate whenever you stepped into a church In Naples or Rome quietly come to address you? Or high up some eulogy entrusted you with a mission as last year on the plaque in Santa Maria Formosa. What they want of me is that I gently remove the appearance of injustice about their death-which at times slightly hinders their souls from proceeding onward. Of course it is strange to inhabit the earth no longer to give up customs one barely had time to learn not to see roses and other promising Things in terms of a human future; no longer to be what one was in infinitely anxious hands; to leave even one's own first name behind forgetting it as easily as a child abandons a broken toy. Strange to no longer desire one's desires. Strange to see meanings that clung together once floating away in every direction. And being dead is hard work and full of retrieval before one can gradually feel a trace of eternity. -Though the living are wrong to believe in the too-sharp distinctions which they themselves have created. Angels (they say) don't know whether it is the living they are moving among or the dead. The eternal torrent whirls all ages along in it through both realms forever and their voices are drowned out in its thunderous roar. In the end those who were carried off early no longer need us: they are weaned from earth's sorrows and joys as gently as children outgrow the soft breasts of their mothers. But we who do need such great mysteries we for whom grief is so often the source of our spirit's growth-: could we exist without them? Is the legend meaningless that tells how in the lament for Linus the daring first notes of song pierced through the barren numbness; and then in the startled space which a youth as lovely as a god had suddenly left forever the Void felt for the first time that harmony which now enraptures and comforts and helps us.

Written by Mary Darby Robinson | Ode on Adversity WHERE o'er my head, the deaf'ning Tempest blew, And Night's cold lamp cast forth a feeble ray; Where o'er the woodlands, vivid light'nings flew, Cleft the strong oak, and scorch'd the blossom'd spray; At morn's approach, I mark the sun's warm glow O'er the grey hill a crimson radiance throw; I mark the silv'ry fragrant dew, Give lustre to the vi'let's hue; The shallow rivers o'er their pebbly way, In slow meanders murmuring play; Day spreads her beams, the lofty forest tree, Shakes from its moisten'd head the pearly show'r, All nature, feels the renovating hour, All, but the sorrowing child of cold ADVERSITY; For her, the linnet's downy throat Breathes harmony in vain; Unmov'd, she hears the warbling note In all the melody of song complain; By her unmark'd the flowret's bloom, In vain the landscape sheds perfume; Her languid form, on earth's damp bed, In coarse and tatter'd garb reclines; In silent agony she pines; Or, if she hears some stranger's tread, To a dark nook, ashamed she flies, And with her scanty robe, o'er-shades her weeping eyes. Her hair, dishevel'd, wildly plays With every freezing gale; While down her cold cheek, deadly pale, The tear of pensive sorrow strays; She shuns, the PITY of the proud, Her mind, still triumphs, unsubdu'd Nor stoops, its misery to obtrude, Upon the vulgar croud. Unheeded, and unknown, To some bleak wilderness she flies; And seated on a moss-clad stone, Unwholesome vapours round her rise, And hang their mischiefs on her brow; The ruffian winds, her limbs expose; Still, still, her heart disdains to bow, She cherishes her woes. NOW FAMINE spreads her sable wings; INGRATITUDE insults her pangs; While from a thousand eager fangs, Madd'ning she flies;­The recreant crew With taunting smiles her steps pursue; While on her burning, bleeding heart, Fresh wounded by Affliction's dart, NEGLECT, her icy poison flings; From HOPE's celestial bosom hurl'd, She seeks oblivion's gloom, Now, now, she mocks the barb'rous world, AND TRIUMPHS IN THE TOMB.

Written by William Shakespeare | Sonnet III: Look In Thy Glass and Tell the Face Thou Viewest Look in thy glass, and tell the face thou viewest Now is the time that face should form another; Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest, Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother. For where is she so fair whose unear'd womb Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry? Or who is he so fond will be the tomb Of his self-love, to stop posterity? Thou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee Calls back the lovely April of her prime: So thou through windows of thine age shall see Despite of wrinkles this thy golden time. But if thou live, remember'd not to be, Die single, and thine image dies with thee.

Written by Rainer Maria Rilke | Duino Elegies: The First Elegy Who, if I cried out, would hear me among the angels' hierarchies? and even if one of them suddenly pressed me against his heart, I would perish in the embrace of his stronger existence. For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror which we are barely able to endure and are awed because it serenely disdains to annihilate us. Each single angel is terrifying. And so I force myself, swallow and hold back the surging call of my dark sobbing. Oh, to whom can we turn for help? Not angels, not humans; and even the knowing animals are aware that we feel little secure and at home in our interpreted world. There remains perhaps some tree on a hillside daily for us to see; yesterday's street remains for us stayed, moved in with us and showed no signs of leaving. Oh, and the night, the night, when the wind full of cosmic space invades our frightened faces. Whom would it not remain for -that longed-after, gently disenchanting night, painfully there for the solitary heart to achieve? Is it easier for lovers? Don't you know yet ? Fling out of your arms the emptiness into the spaces we breath -perhaps the birds will feel the expanded air in their more ferven flight. Yes, the springtime were in need of you. Often a star waited for you to espy it and sense its light. A wave rolled toward you out of the distant past, or as you walked below an open window, a violin gave itself to your hearing. All this was trust. But could you manage it? Were you not always distraught by expectation, as if all this were announcing the arrival of a beloved? (Where would you find a place to hide her, with all your great strange thoughts coming and going and often staying for the night.) When longing overcomes you, sing of women in love; for their famous passion is far from immortal enough. Those whom you almost envy, the abandoned and desolate ones, whom you found so much more loving than those gratified. Begin ever new again the praise you cannot attain; remember: the hero lives on and survives; even his downfall was for him only a pretext for achieving his final birth. But nature, exhausted, takes lovers back into itself, as if such creative forces could never be achieved a second time. Have you thought of Gaspara Stampa sufficiently: that any girl abandoned by her lover may feel from that far intenser example of loving: "Ah, might I become like her!" Should not their oldest sufferings finally become more fruitful for us? Is it not time that lovingly we freed ourselves from the beloved and, quivering, endured: as the arrow endures the bow-string's tension, and in this tense release becomes more than itself. For staying is nowhere. Voices, voices. Listen my heart, as only saints have listened: until the gigantic call lifted them clear off the ground. Yet they went on, impossibly, kneeling, completely unawares: so intense was their listening. Not that you could endure the voice of God -far from it! But listen to the voice of the wind and the ceaseless message that forms itself out of silence. They sweep toward you now from those who died young. Whenever they entered a church in Rome or Naples, did not their fate quietly speak to you as recently as the tablet did in Santa Maria Formosa? What do they want of me? to quietly remove the appearance of suffered injustice that, at times, hinders a little their spirits from freely proceeding onward. Of course, it is strange to inhabit the earth no longer, to no longer use skills on had barely time to acquire; not to observe roses and other things that promised so much in terms of a human future, no longer to be what one was in infinitely anxious hands; to even discard one's own name as easily as a child abandons a broken toy. Strange, not to desire to continue wishing one's wishes. Strange to notice all that was related, fluttering so loosely in space. And being dead is hard work and full of retrieving before one can gradually feel a trace of eternity. -Yes, but the liviing make the mistake of drawing too sharp a distinction. Angels (they say) are often unable to distinguish between moving among the living or the dead. The eternal torrent whirls all ages along with it, through both realms forever, and their voices are lost in its thunderous roar. In the end the early departed have no longer need of us. One is gently weaned from things of this world as a child outgrows the need of its mother's breast. But we who have need of those great mysteries, we for whom grief is so often the source of spiritual growth, could we exist without them? Is the legend vain that tells of music's beginning in the midst of the mourning for Linos? the daring first sounds of song piercing the barren numbness, and how in that stunned space an almost godlike youth suddenly left forever, and the emptiness felt for the first time those harmonious vibrations which now enrapture and comfort and help us.

Written by Alexander Pope | The Rape of the Lock: Canto 4 But anxious cares the pensive nymph oppress'd, And secret passions labour'd in her breast. Not youthful kings in battle seiz'd alive, Not scornful virgins who their charms survive, Not ardent lovers robb'd of all their bliss, Not ancient ladies when refus'd a kiss, Not tyrants fierce that unrepenting die, Not Cynthia when her manteau's pinn'd awry, E'er felt such rage, resentment, and despair, As thou, sad virgin! for thy ravish'd hair. For, that sad moment, when the Sylphs withdrew, And Ariel weeping from Belinda flew, Umbriel, a dusky, melancholy sprite, As ever sullied the fair face of light, Down to the central earth, his proper scene, Repair'd to search the gloomy cave of Spleen. Swift on his sooty pinions flits the Gnome, And in a vapour reach'd the dismal dome. No cheerful breeze this sullen region knows, The dreaded East is all the wind that blows. Here, in a grotto, shelter'd close from air, And screen'd in shades from day's detested glare, She sighs for ever on her pensive bed, Pain at her side, and Megrim at her head. Two handmaids wait the throne: alike in place, But diff'ring far in figure and in face. Here stood Ill Nature like an ancient maid, Her wrinkled form in black and white array'd; With store of pray'rs, for mornings, nights, and noons, Her hand is fill'd; her bosom with lampoons. There Affectation, with a sickly mien, Shows in her cheek the roses of eighteen, Practis'd to lisp, and hang the head aside, Faints into airs, and languishes with pride, On the rich quilt sinks with becoming woe, Wrapp'd in a gown, for sickness, and for show. The fair ones feel such maladies as these, When each new night-dress gives a new disease. A constant vapour o'er the palace flies; Strange phantoms, rising as the mists arise; Dreadful, as hermit's dreams in haunted shades, Or bright, as visions of expiring maids. Now glaring fiends, and snakes on rolling spires, Pale spectres, gaping tombs, and purple fires: Now lakes of liquid gold, Elysian scenes, And crystal domes, and angels in machines. Unnumber'd throngs on ev'ry side are seen, Of bodies chang'd to various forms by Spleen. Here living teapots stand, one arm held out, One bent; the handle this, and that the spout: A pipkin there, like Homer's tripod walks; Here sighs a jar, and there a goose pie talks; Men prove with child, as pow'rful fancy works, And maids turn'd bottles, call aloud for corks. Safe pass'd the Gnome through this fantastic band, A branch of healing spleenwort in his hand. Then thus address'd the pow'r: "Hail, wayward Queen! Who rule the sex to fifty from fifteen: Parent of vapours and of female wit, Who give th' hysteric, or poetic fit, On various tempers act by various ways, Make some take physic, others scribble plays; Who cause the proud their visits to delay, And send the godly in a pet to pray. A nymph there is, that all thy pow'r disdains, And thousands more in equal mirth maintains. But oh! if e'er thy gnome could spoil a grace, Or raise a pimple on a beauteous face, Like citron waters matrons' cheeks inflame, Or change complexions at a losing game; If e'er with airy horns I planted heads, Or rumpled petticoats, or tumbled beds, Or caus'd suspicion when no soul was rude, Or discompos'd the head-dress of a prude, Or e'er to costive lap-dog gave disease, Which not the tears of brightest eyes could ease: Hear me, and touch Belinda with chagrin; That single act gives half the world the spleen." The goddess with a discontented air Seems to reject him, though she grants his pray'r. A wondrous bag with both her hands she binds, Like that where once Ulysses held the winds; There she collects the force of female lungs, Sighs, sobs, and passions, and the war of tongues. A vial next she fills with fainting fears, Soft sorrows, melting griefs, and flowing tears. The Gnome rejoicing bears her gifts away, Spreads his black wings, and slowly mounts to day. Sunk in Thalestris' arms the nymph he found, Her eyes dejected and her hair unbound. Full o'er their heads the swelling bag he rent, And all the Furies issu'd at the vent. Belinda burns with more than mortal ire, And fierce Thalestris fans the rising fire. "Oh wretched maid!" she spread her hands, and cried, (While Hampton's echoes, "Wretched maid!" replied, "Was it for this you took such constant care The bodkin, comb, and essence to prepare? For this your locks in paper durance bound, For this with tort'ring irons wreath'd around? For this with fillets strain'd your tender head, And bravely bore the double loads of lead? Gods! shall the ravisher display your hair, While the fops envy, and the ladies stare! Honour forbid! at whose unrivall'd shrine Ease, pleasure, virtue, all, our sex resign. Methinks already I your tears survey, Already hear the horrid things they say, Already see you a degraded toast, And all your honour in a whisper lost! How shall I, then, your helpless fame defend? 'Twill then be infamy to seem your friend! And shall this prize, th' inestimable prize, Expos'd through crystal to the gazing eyes, And heighten'd by the diamond's circling rays, On that rapacious hand for ever blaze? Sooner shall grass in Hyde Park Circus grow, And wits take lodgings in the sound of Bow; Sooner let earth, air, sea, to chaos fall, Men, monkeys, lap-dogs, parrots, perish all!" She said; then raging to Sir Plume repairs, And bids her beau demand the precious hairs: (Sir Plume, of amber snuff-box justly vain, And the nice conduct of a clouded cane) With earnest eyes, and round unthinking face, He first the snuffbox open'd, then the case, And thus broke out--"My Lord, why, what the devil? Z{-}{-}{-}ds! damn the lock! 'fore Gad, you must be civil! Plague on't! 'tis past a jest--nay prithee, pox! Give her the hair"--he spoke, and rapp'd his box. "It grieves me much," replied the peer again, "Who speaks so well should ever speak in vain. But by this lock, this sacred lock I swear, (Which never more shall join its parted hair; Which never more its honours shall renew, Clipp'd from the lovely head where late it grew) That while my nostrils draw the vital air, This hand, which won it, shall for ever wear." He spoke, and speaking, in proud triumph spread The long-contended honours of her head. But Umbriel, hateful gnome! forbears not so; He breaks the vial whence the sorrows flow. Then see! the nymph in beauteous grief appears, Her eyes half-languishing, half-drown'd in tears; On her heav'd bosom hung her drooping head, Which, with a sigh, she rais'd; and thus she said: "For ever curs'd be this detested day, Which snatch'd my best, my fav'rite curl away! Happy! ah ten times happy, had I been, If Hampton Court these eyes had never seen! Yet am not I the first mistaken maid, By love of courts to num'rous ills betray'd. Oh had I rather unadmir'd remain'd In some lone isle, or distant northern land; Where the gilt chariot never marks the way, Where none learn ombre, none e'er taste bohea! There kept my charms conceal'd from mortal eye, Like roses, that in deserts bloom and die. What mov'd my mind with youthful lords to roam? Oh had I stay'd, and said my pray'rs at home! 'Twas this, the morning omens seem'd to tell, Thrice from my trembling hand the patch-box fell; The tott'ring china shook without a wind, Nay, Poll sat mute, and Shock was most unkind! A Sylph too warn'd me of the threats of fate, In mystic visions, now believ'd too late! See the poor remnants of these slighted hairs! My hands shall rend what ev'n thy rapine spares: These, in two sable ringlets taught to break, Once gave new beauties to the snowy neck. The sister-lock now sits uncouth, alone, And in its fellow's fate foresees its own; Uncurl'd it hangs, the fatal shears demands And tempts once more thy sacrilegious hands. Oh hadst thou, cruel! been content to seize Hairs less in sight, or any hairs but these!"

Written by William Butler Yeats | Byzantium The unpurged images of day recede; The Emperor's drunken soldiery are abed; Night resonance recedes, night walkers' song After great cathedral gong; A starlit or a moonlit dome disdains All that man is, All mere complexities, The fury and the mire of human veins. Before me floats an image, man or shade, Shade more than man, more image than a shade; For Hades' bobbin bound in mummy-cloth May unwind the winding path; A mouth that has no moisture and no breath Breathless mouths may summon; I hail the superhuman; I call it death-in-life and life-in-death. Miracle, bird or golden handiwork, More miraclc than bird or handiwork, Planted on the star-lit golden bough, Can like the cocks of Hades crow, Or, by the moon embittered, scorn aloud In glory of changeless metal Common bird or petal And all complexities of mire or blood. At midnight on the Emperor's pavement flit Flames that no ****** feeds, nor steel has lit, Nor storm disturbs, flames begotten of flame, Where blood-begotten spirits come And all complexities of fury leave, Dying into a dance, An agony of trance, An agony of flame that cannot singe a sleeve. Astraddle on the dolphin's mire and blood, Spirit after Spirit! The smithies break the flood. The golden smithies of the Emperor! Marbles of the dancing floor Break bitter furies of complexity, Those images that yet Fresh images beget, That dolphin-torn, that gong-tormented sea.

Written by William Cowper | The Christian Honor and happiness unite To make the Christian's name a praise; How fair the scene, how clear the light, That fills the remnant of His days! A kingly character He bears, No change His priestly office knows; Unfading is the crown He wears, His joys can never reach a close. Adorn'd with glory from on high, Salvation shines upon His face; His robe is of the ethereal dye, His steps are dignity and grace. Inferior honors He disdains, Nor stoops to take applause from earth; The King of kings Himself maintains The expenses of His heavenly birth. The noblest creature seen below, Ordain'd to fill a throne above; God gives him all He can bestow, His kingdom of eternal love! My soul is ravished at the thought! Methinks from earth I see Him rise! Angels congratulate His lot, And shout Him welcome to the skies.

Written by Thomas Carew | A Cruel Mistress We read of kings and gods that kindly took A pitcher fill'd with water from the brook ; But I have daily tender'd without thanks Rivers of tears that overflow their banks. A slaughter'd bull will appease angry Jove, A horse the Sun, a lamb the god of love, But she disdains the spotless sacrifice Of a pure heart, that at her altar lies. Vesta is not displeased, if her chaste urn Do with repaired fuel ever burn ; But my saint frowns, though to her honour'd name I consecrate a never-dying flame. Th' Assyrian king did none i' th' furnace throw But those that to his image did not bow ; With bended knees I daily worship her, Yet she consumes her own idolater. Of such a goddess no times leave record, That burnt the temple where she was adored.

Written by Mary Darby Robinson | Monody to the Memory of Chatterton Chill penury repress'd his noble rage, And froze the genial current of his soul. GRAY. IF GRIEF can deprecate the wrath of Heaven, Or human frailty hope to be forgiven ! Ere now thy sainted spirit bends its way To the bland regions of celestial day; Ere now, thy soul, immers'd in purest air Smiles at the triumphs of supreme Despair; Or bath'd in seas of endless bliss, disdains The vengeful memory of mortal pains; Yet shall the MUSE a fond memorial give To shield thy name, and bid thy GENIUS live. Too proud for pity, and too poor for praise, No voice to cherish, and no hand to raise; Torn, stung, and sated, with this "mortal coil," This weary, anxious scene of fruitless toil; Not all the graces that to youth belong, Nor all the energies of sacred song; Nor all that FANCY, all that GENIUS gave, Could snatch thy wounded spirit from the grave. Hard was thy lot, from every comfort torn; In POVERTY'S cold arms condemn'd to mourn; To live by mental toil, e'en when the brain Could scarce its trembling faculties sustain; To mark the dreary minutes slowly creep: Each day to labour, and each night to weep; 'Till the last murmur of thy frantic soul, In proud concealment from its mansion stole, While ENVY springing from her lurid cave, Snatch'd the young LAURELS from thy rugged grave. So the pale primrose, sweetest bud of May, Scarce wakes to beauty, ere it feels decay; While baleful weeds their hidden n poisons pour, Choke the green sod, and wither every flow'r. Immur'd in shades, from busy scenes remov'd; No sound to solace,­but the verse he lov'd: No soothing numbers harmoniz'd his ear; No feeling bosom gave his griefs a tear; Obscurely born­no gen'rous friend he found To lead his trembling steps o'er classic ground. No patron fill'd his heart with flatt'ring hope, No tutor'd lesson gave his genius scope; Yet, while poetic ardour nerv'd each thought, And REASON sanction'd what AMBITION taught; He soar'd beyond the narrow spells that bind The slow perceptions of the vulgar mind; The fire once kindled by the breath of FAME, Her restless pinions fann'd the glitt'ring flame; Warm'd by its rays, he thought each vision just; For conscious VIRTUE seldom feels DISTRUST. Frail are the charms delusive FANCY shows, And short the bliss her fickle smile bestows; Yet the bright prospect pleas'd his dazzled view, Each HOPE seem'd ripened, and each PHANTOM true; Fill'd with delight, his unsuspecting mind Weigh'd not the grov'ling treach'ries of mankind; For while a niggard boon his Savants supply'd, And NATURE'S claims subdued the voice of PRIDE: His timid talents own'd a borrow'd name, And gain'd by FICTION what was due to FAME. With secret labour, and with taste refin'd, This son of mis'ry form'd his infant mind ! When op'ning Reason's earliest scenes began, The dawn of childhood mark'd the future man ! He scorn'd the puerile sports of vulgar boys, His little heart aspir'd to nobler joys; Creative Fancy wing'd his few short hours, While soothing Hope adorn'd his path with flow'rs, Yet FAME'S recording hand no trophy gave, Save the sad TEAR­to decorate his grave. Yet in this dark, mysterious scene of woe, Conviction's flame shall shed a radiant glow; His infant MUSE shall bind with nerves of fire The sacrilegious hand that stabs its sire. Methinks, I hear his wand'ring shade complain, While mournful ECHO lingers on the strain; Thro' the lone aisle his restless spirit calls, His phantom glides along the minster's § walls; Where many an hour his devious footsteps trod, Ere Fate resign'd him TO HIS PITYING GOD. Yet, shall the MUSE to gentlest sorrow prone Adopt his cause, and make his griefs her own; Ne'er shall her CHATTERTON's neglected name, Fade in inglorious dreams of doubtful fame; Shall he, whose pen immortal GENIUS gave, Sleep unlamented in an unknown grave? No, ­the fond MUSE shall spurn the base neglect, The verse she cherish'd she shall still protect. And if unpitied pangs the mind can move, Or graceful numbers warm the heart to love; If the fine raptures of poetic fire Delight to vibrate on the trembling lyre; If sorrow claims the kind embalming tear, Or worth oppress'd, excites a pang sincere? Some kindred soul shall pour the song divine, And with the cypress bough the laurel twine, Whose weeping leaves the wint'ry blast shall wave In mournful murmurs o'er thy unbless'd grave. And tho' no lofty VASE or sculptur'd BUST Bends o'er the sod that hides thy sacred dust; Tho' no long line of ancestry betrays The PRIDE of RELATIVES, or POMP of PRAISE. Tho' o'er thy name a blushing nation rears OBLIVION'S wing­ to hide REFLECTION'S tears! Still shall thy verse in dazzling lustre live, And claim a brighter wreath THAN WEALTH CAN GIVE.

Written by Robert William Service | Ragetty Doll Rosemary has of dolls a dozen, Yet she disdains them all; While Marie Rose, her pauper cousin Has just an old rag doll. But you should see her mother it, And with her kisses smother it. A twist of twill, a hank of hair, Fit for the rubbish bin; How Rosemary with scorn would stare At its pathetic grin! Yet Marie Rose can lover it, And with her kisses cover it. Rosemary is a pampered pet; She sniffs a dainty nose Of scorn at ragged dolls, and yet My love's with Marie Rose, In garret corner shy and sweet, With rag doll Marguerite. Though kin they are, a gulf will grow Between them with the years; For one a life of love will know, The other toil and tears: Perhaps that shabby rag doll knows The rue of Marie Rose.