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 | The collected works of Ambrose Bierce |  |
A WET SEASON
Horas non numero nisi serenas.
The rain is fierce, it flogs the earth,
And man's in danger.
O that my mother at my birth
Had borne a stranger!
The flooded ground is all around,
The depth uncommon.
How blest I'd be if only she
Had borne a salmon!
And man's in danger.
O that my mother at my birth
Had borne a stranger!
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The depth uncommon.
How blest I'd be if only she
Had borne a salmon!
If still denied the solar glow
'Twere bliss ecstatic
To be amphibious—but O,
To be aquatic!
We're worms, men say, o' the dust, and they
That faith are firm of.
O, then, be just: show me some dust
To be a worm of.
'Twere bliss ecstatic
To be amphibious—but O,
To be aquatic!
We're worms, men say, o' the dust, and they
That faith are firm of.
O, then, be just: show me some dust
To be a worm of.
The pines are chanting overhead
A psalm uncheering.
It's O, to have been for ages dead
And hard of hearing!
Restore, ye Pow'rs, the last bright hours
The dial reckoned;
'Twas in the time of Egypt's prime—
Rameses II.
A psalm uncheering.
It's O, to have been for ages dead
And hard of hearing!
Restore, ye Pow'rs, the last bright hours
The dial reckoned;
'Twas in the time of Egypt's prime—
Rameses II.
| The collected works of Ambrose Bierce | |