Bats In Sunshine

Ambrose Bierce 1842 (Meigs County) – 1914 (Chihuahua)



Well, Mr. Kemble, you are called, I think,
A great divine, and I'm a great profane.
You as a Congregationalist blink
Some certain truths that I esteem a gain,
And dropp them in the coffers of my brain,
Pleased with the pretty music of their chink.
Perhaps your spiritual wealth is such
A golden truth or two don't count for much.

You say that you've no patience with such stuff
As by Renan is writ, and when you read
(Why _do_ you read?) have hardly strength enough
To hold your hand from flinging the vile screed
Into the fire. That were a wasteful deed
Which you'd repent in sackcloth extra rough;
For books cost money, and I'm told you care
To lay up treasures Here as well as There.

I fear, good, pious soul, that you mistake
Your thrift for toleration. Never mind:
Renan in any case would hardly break
His great, strong, charitable heart to find
The bats and owls of your myopic kind
Pained by the light that his ideas make.
'Tis Truth's best purpose to shine in at holes
Where cower the Kembles, to confound their souls!

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Submitted on May 13, 2011

Modified on March 05, 2023

59 sec read
113

Quick analysis:

Scheme ABABBACC DXDEEDFF GHGHHGII
Closest metre Iambic pentameter
Characters 1,011
Words 193
Stanzas 3
Stanza Lengths 8, 8, 8

Ambrose Bierce

Ambrose Gwinnett Bierce was an American editorialist, journalist, short story writer, fabulist, and satirist. more…

All Ambrose Bierce poems | Ambrose Bierce Books

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