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An allegorical interlude.
Though the pitcher that goes to the sparkling rill
Too oft gets broken at last,
There are scores of others its place to fill
When its earth to the earth is cast;
Keep that pitcher at home, let it never roam,
But lie like a useless clod,
Yet sooner or later the hour will come
When its chips are thrown to the sod.
Is it wise, then, say, in the waning day,
When the vessel is crack'd and old,
To cherish the battered potter's clay,
As though it were virgin gold?
Take care of yourself, dull, boorish elf,
Though prudent and safe you seem,
Your pitcher will break on the musty shelf,
And mine by the dazzling stream.
Marcus Clarke, from his preface to Poems by Adam Lindsay Gordon (1905 edition):
"Unhappily, the melancholy which Gordon's friends had with pain observed increased daily, and in the full flood of his success, with congratulations pouring upon him from every side, he was found dead in the heather near his home with a bullet from his own rifle in his brain".
From Ars Longa, A Song of Pilgrimage:
The staff is snapp’d, the sandal fray’d,
Too oft gets broken at last,
There are scores of others its place to fill
When its earth to the earth is cast;
Keep that pitcher at home, let it never roam,
But lie like a useless clod,
Yet sooner or later the hour will come
When its chips are thrown to the sod.
Is it wise, then, say, in the waning day,
When the vessel is crack'd and old,
To cherish the battered potter's clay,
As though it were virgin gold?
Take care of yourself, dull, boorish elf,
Though prudent and safe you seem,
Your pitcher will break on the musty shelf,
And mine by the dazzling stream.
Marcus Clarke, from his preface to Poems by Adam Lindsay Gordon (1905 edition):
"Unhappily, the melancholy which Gordon's friends had with pain observed increased daily, and in the full flood of his success, with congratulations pouring upon him from every side, he was found dead in the heather near his home with a bullet from his own rifle in his brain".
From Ars Longa, A Song of Pilgrimage:
The staff is snapp’d, the sandal fray’d,
The flint-stone galls and blisters,
Our brother’s steps we cannot aid,
Ah me! nor aid our sister’s;
The pit prepares its hidden snares,
The rock prepared to cleave is,
We cry, in falling unawares,
“Ars longa, vita brevis.”
I am reminded that the Greek poet, Kostas Karyotakis, also committed suicide by shooting himself.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kostas_Karyotakis
