Thomas Chatterton Sitting After Taking Arsenic.
Thomas Chatterton Sitting After Taking Arsenic.
(Linoleum Cut).
Gloue at thee vial that thou has just emptied sauter'd tears therein,
aboue thee stars that twinkle for thee last shine,
now'st thou shall be anighst along with thee words written as Rowley 'ere,
from faetus till now, what has't thou learn'st in thy waing semestre hours ov'rpass'd?
Wishing thou was moore œconomicall with thee soul,
as thee pen that slides ne'er nighe agayne,
thee black kennst call'st a gentle tunne to the body, that be tift'd for thou,
acomen in without a brighte view darken'd,
twytte at thou self ,knowing that help isnt near ner hecket swythyn,
baleful are the ways of a forletten poet, without e'en a crust of bread nor a fetive penny to spend,
sabalus forreying pull was a deceitful whisper heard misunderstood forstraughteyng ahh,
ishad ethie promises what didst thou think,hap's not at all,
'tis a twixt of a problem estroughted hence forth forming a glomb,
does rede arisan once the toll rings louder that thee chelandrees beufan?
Many think, 'tis really know, what a forspillan , cause you nete to know not,
to tak'st onweg thee thing that can't be return'd latte,
thee poyntelle, the vita, thee very thing that brings joy along with sadness in this vie ,
to mak'st a poet aushalten through thou hard shipp's aghast of caytysnede leven,
'O what things thou could of wroten off,'tis loss of tongue as the quill runn'th emt'd,
spoken nought no moore words, schweigend night,
twill dries upp'd for thee blak'd goose nyghte,
lost dreams and visions of a life to thee fullest life be lost indeed,
but a ugsomme drift near,
'tis boat hits thee agreeme shores to snuff out,
does't thou still smaken thy bestoikerre piss?
That pass'd as wine e'erlasting?
upswalynge pain at thy loss of youre nestl'd self,
too late to turn back thee olyphauntes that pound underfoot,
unmerciful at youre center self,
a quick to thy wick which ne'er pours,
but burns with daygnous lyvelyhode,
borne out with aeterne weere,
goodnight swotie poet,
thee welkynne scalle kiss thous dolce cheeks,
well praeter thee half moons wynn!
Steve.D.Hammond.
Thomas Chatterton Sitting After Taking Arsenic.
Thomas Chatterton Sitting After Taking Arsenic.
(Linoleum Cut).
Gloue at thee vial that thou has just emptied sauter'd tears therein,
aboue thee stars that twinkle for thee last shine,
now'st thou shall be anighst along with thee words written as Rowley 'ere,
from faetus till now, what has't thou learn'st in thy waing semestre hours ov'rpass'd?
Wishing thou was moore œconomicall with thee soul,
as thee pen that slides ne'er nighe agayne,
thee black kennst call'st a gentle tunne to the body, that be tift'd for thou,
acomen in without a brighte view darken'd,
twytte at thou self ,knowing that help isnt near ner hecket swythyn,
baleful are the ways of a forletten poet, without e'en a crust of bread nor a fetive penny to spend,
sabalus forreying pull was a deceitful whisper heard misunderstood forstraughteyng ahh,
ishad ethie promises what didst thou think,hap's not at all,
'tis a twixt of a problem estroughted hence forth forming a glomb,
does rede arisan once the toll rings louder that thee chelandrees beufan?
Many think, 'tis really know, what a forspillan , cause you nete to know not,
to tak'st onweg thee thing that can't be return'd latte,
thee poyntelle, the vita, thee very thing that brings joy along with sadness in this vie ,
to mak'st a poet aushalten through thou hard shipp's aghast of caytysnede leven,
'O what things thou could of wroten off,'tis loss of tongue as the quill runn'th emt'd,
spoken nought no moore words, schweigend night,
twill dries upp'd for thee blak'd goose nyghte,
lost dreams and visions of a life to thee fullest life be lost indeed,
but a ugsomme drift near,
'tis boat hits thee agreeme shores to snuff out,
does't thou still smaken thy bestoikerre piss?
That pass'd as wine e'erlasting?
upswalynge pain at thy loss of youre nestl'd self,
too late to turn back thee olyphauntes that pound underfoot,
unmerciful at youre center self,
a quick to thy wick which ne'er pours,
but burns with daygnous lyvelyhode,
borne out with aeterne weere,
goodnight swotie poet,
thee welkynne scalle kiss thous dolce cheeks,
well praeter thee half moons wynn!
Steve.D.Hammond.