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today is 18 Oct 2017


CLOSE / Parnassiad


Peace and Other Stories


Fragments of a Formerly Active Sex Life



On Burning a Dull Poem
by Jonathan Swift  /  poetry  /  8 Nov 2007

An ass's hoof alone can hold
That poisonous juice, which kills by cold.
Methought, when I this poem read,
No vessel but an ass's head
Such frigid fustian could contain;
I mean, the head without the brain.
The cold conceits, the chilling thoughts,
Went down like stupifying draughts;
I found my head begin to swim,
A numbness crept through every limb.
In haste, with imprecations dire,
I threw the volume in the fire;
When, (who could think?) though cold as ice,
It burnt to ashes in a trice.
  How could I more enhance its fame?
Though born in snow, it died in flame.
                                          (1729)

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