11 feb.
Sugestie pentru Valentine’s Day
Mai ceva ca o haină de nurcă 
31 aug.
Funeral
A fine funeral was ordered for a woman who had henpecked her husband, driven her kids half nuts, scrapped with the neighbors at the slightest opportunity, and even made neurotics of the cat and dog with her explosive temper.
As the casket was lowered into the grave, a violent thunderstorm broke, and the pastor’s benediction was drowned out by a blinding flash of lightning, followed by terrific thunder.
„Well,” commented one of the mourners, „sounds like she got where she was going.”
16 mai
„The Pauper’s Funeral” de George Crabbe
| Now once again the gloomy scene explore, Less gloomy now; the bitter hour is o‘er, The man of many sorrows sighs no more. – Up yonder hill, behold how sadly slow The bier moves winding from the vale below; There lie the happy dead, from trouble free, And the glad parish pays the frugal fee. No more, O Death! the victim starts to hear Churchwarden stern, or kingly overseer; No more the farmer claims his humble bow, Thou art his lord, the best of tyrants thou! Now to the church behold the mourners come, Sedately torpid and devoutly dumb; The village children now their games suspend, To see the bier that bears their ancient friend; For he was one in all their idle sport, And like a monarch ruled their little court. The pliant bow he form‘d, the flying ball, The bat, the wicket, were his labours all; Him now they follow to his grave, and stand Silent and sad, and gazing, hand in hand; While bending low, their eager eyes explore The mingled relics of the parish poor. The bell tolls late, and moping owl flies round; Fear marks the flight and magnifies the sound; The busy priest, detain‘d by weightier care, Defers his duty till the day of prayer; And, waiting long, the crowd retire distress‘d, To think a poor man‘s bones should lie unbless‘d. |
Cumplita scenă vezi-o încă-o dată; Acu-i mai calmă; ora-ntunecată S-a dus: sărmanul n-o să se mai zbată. Pe deal, departe, şerpuind agale, Vezi cum sicriul suie dinspre vale. Acolo dorm cei morţi, scăpaţi de chin, Iar obştea, azi, mai cheltuie puţin. Cel stins, o, moarte, n-o să mai audă Vătaf regesc sau crâsnic plin de ciudă; Boierul nu-i mai dă porunci, strigând; Domn îi eşti tu, tiranul cel mai blând! Vin la prohod şi nişte bocitoare, Dar tac, într-o pioasă nepăsare. Ai satului copii s-au strâns grămadă, Sicriul unui vechi ortac să-l vadă; Căci el a fost mereu în ceata lor, Şi-o cârmuise ca un domnitor. Arc le făcea şi minge zburătoare; Dibaci era la porţi şi bătătoare. Pe el îl duc pe ultima lui cale, Şi, mână-n mână, merg privind cu jale. Plecându-se, cu ochi isteţi străbat Mormintele săracilor din sat. Bat clopote târziu, şi-o buhă zboară; Pe toţi îi face frica să tresară. Iar popa, prins cu treburi, pleacă fuga: La ziua celor morţi amână ruga. Se-mprăştie şi lumea, cugetând Că n-ai nici popă, când eşti om de rând. |
| George Crabbe | traducere de T. Boşca |
