 | The collected works of Ambrose Bierce |  |
[Here lies Greer Harrison, a well cracked louse]
Here lies Greer Harrison, a well cracked louse—
So small a tenant of so big a house!
So small a tenant of so big a house!
Who loved to loll on the Parnassian mount,
His pen to suck and all his thumbs to count.
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!
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 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.
And like a jaybird from a knot-hole sings.
No more the clubmen, pickled with his wine,
Expand their ears and hiccough: “That's divine!”
Expand their ears and hiccough: “That's divine!”
The genius of his purse no longer draws
The pleasing thunders of a paid applause.
The pleasing thunders of a paid applause.
All silent now; nor sound nor sense remains,
Though riddances of worms improve his brains.
Though riddances of worms improve his brains.
All his no talents to the earth revert,
And Fame concludes the record: “Dirt to dirt!”
And Fame concludes the record: “Dirt to dirt!”
| The collected works of Ambrose Bierce | |