The Poetry Corner

On Burning A Dull Poem

By Jonathan Swift

An ass's hoof alone can hold That poisonous juice, which kills by cold. Methought, when I this poem read, No vessel but an ass's head Such frigid fustian could contain; I mean, the head without the brain. The cold conceits, the chilling thoughts, Went down like stupifying draughts; I found my head begin to swim, A numbness crept through every limb. In haste, with imprecations dire, I threw the volume in the fire; When, (who could think?) though cold as ice, It burnt to ashes in a trice. How could I more enhance its fame? Though born in snow, it died in flame.