An Epitaph [Here lies Greer Harrison, a well cracked louse]
Ambrose Bierce 1842 (Meigs County) – 1914 (Chihuahua)
Here lies Greer Harrison, a well cracked louse
So small a tenant of so big a house!
He joyed in fighting with his eyes (his fist
Prudently pendent from a peaceful wrist)
And loved to loll on the Parnassian mount,
His pen to suck and all his thumbs to count,
What poetry he'd written but for lack
Of skill, when he had counted, to count back!
Alas, no more he'll climb the sacred steep
To wake the lyre and put the world to sleep!
To his rapt lip his soul no longer springs
And like a jaybird from a knot-hole sings.
No more the clubmen, pickled with his wine,
Spread wide their ears and hiccough 'That's divine!'
The genius of his purse no longer draws
The pleasing thunders of a paid applause.
All silent now, nor sound nor sense remains,
Though riddances of worms improve his brains.
All his no talents to the earth revert,
And Fame concludes the record: 'Dirt to dirt!'
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Submitted on May 13, 2011
Modified on March 05, 2023
- 50 sec read
- 36 Views
Quick analysis:
Scheme | AABBCCDDEEFFGGHHIIJJ |
---|---|
Closest metre | Iambic pentameter |
Characters | 861 |
Words | 167 |
Stanzas | 1 |
Stanza Lengths | 20 |
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"An Epitaph [Here lies Greer Harrison, a well cracked louse]" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 10 Jun 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem/1694/an-epitaph-[here-lies-greer-harrison,-a-well-cracked-louse]>.
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