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An Art Critic Post by :Bill4444 Category :Poems Author :Ambrose Bierce Date :March 2011 Read :3368

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An Art Critic

Ira P. Rankin, you've a nasal name--
I'll sound it through "the speaking-trump of fame,"
And wondering nations, hearing from afar
The brazen twang of its resounding jar,
Shall say: "These bards are an uncommon class--
They blow their noses with a tube of brass!"
Rankin! ye gods! if Influenza pick
Our names at christening, and such names stick,
Let's all be born when summer suns withstand
Her prevalence and chase her from the land,
And healing breezes generously help
To shield from death each ailing human whelp!
"What's in a name?" There's much at least in yours
That the pained ear unwillingly endures,
And much to make the suffering soul, I fear,
Envy the lesser anguish of the ear.

So you object to Cytherea! Do,
The picture was not painted, sir, for you!
_Your_ mind to gratify and taste address,
The masking dove had been a dove the less.
Provincial censor! all untaught in art,
With mind indecent and indecent heart,
Do you not know--nay, why should I explain?
Instruction, argument alike were vain--
I'll show you reasons when you show me brain.

(The end)
Ambrose Bierce's poem: Art Critic

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Posterity's Award Posterity's Award

Posterity's Award
I'd long been dead, but I returned to earth. Some small affairs posterity was makingA mess of, and I came to see that worth Received its dues. I'd hardly finished waking,The grave-mould still upon me, when my eyePerceived a statue standing straight and high.'Twas a colossal figure--bronze and gold-- Nobly designed, in attitude commanding.A toga from its shoulders, fold on fold, Fell to the pedestal on which 'twas standing.Nobility it had and splendid grace,And all it should have had--except a face!It showed no features: not a trace nor sign Of any eyes or nose could be