Author: Henry David Thoreau (218.19.166.---)
Date: 11-28-05 10:43
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My tongue-tied Muse in manners holds her still,
While comments of your praise richly compil\'d,
Reserve their character with golden quill,
And precious phrase by all the Muses fil\'d.
I think good thoughts, whilst others write good words,
And like unlettered clerk still cry \'Amen\'
To every hymn that able spirit affords,
In polish\'d form of well-refined pen.
Hearing you praised, I say \'\'tis so, \'tis true,\'
And to the most of praise add something more;
But that is in my thought, whose love to you,
Though words come hindmost, holds his rank before.
Then others, for the breath of words respect,
Me for my dumb thoughts, speaking in effect.
O! lest the world should task you to recite
What merit lived in me, that you should love
After my death,--dear love, forget me quite,
For you in me can nothing worthy prove;
Unless you would devise some virtuous lie,
To do more for me than mine own desert,
And hang more praise upon deceased I
Than niggard truth would willingly impart:
O! lest your true love may seem false in this
That you for love speak well of me untrue,
My name be buried where my body is,
And live no more to shame nor me nor you.
For I am shamed by that which I bring forth,
And so should you, to love things nothing worth.
I love women. They\'re the best thing ever created. If they want to be
men and come down to our level, that\'s fine.
They say marriages are made in Heaven. But so is thunder and lightning.