Ode to Stephen Dowling Bots, Dec'd.
a poem by Mark Twain
And did young Stephen sicken,
And did young Stephen die?
And did the sad hearts thicken,
And did the mourners cry?
No; such was not the fate of
Young Stephen Dowling Bots;
Though sad hearts round him thickened,
'Twas not from sickness' shots.
No whooping-cough did rack his frame,
Nor measles drear, with spots;
Not these impaired the sacred name
Of Stephen Dowling Bots.
Despised love struck not with woe
That head of curly knots,
Nor stomach troubles laid him low,
Young Stephen Dowling Bots.
O no. Then list with tearful eye,
Whilst I his fate do tell.
His soul did from this cold world fly,
By falling down a well.
They got him out and emptied him;
Alas it was too late;
His spirit was gone for to sport aloft
In the realms of the good and great.
A website offering fresh, original and exclusive material by writers who espouse the philosophy that “Words Matter” and believe that imagination is the seed of accomplishment.
We are passionate about the world we inhabit; Aware there are two sides to every story. Persistent in our pursuit of all points of view.
A place to think, to laugh, to shed a tear. Where words are gifts that feed the soul; ignite a flame within the heart; excite the recesses of the brain; spark passions and concerns; inspire the conscious and subconscious.
Join Spillwords for this and more…