O, were I rich

In case you missed it when I posted it on g0necasting, ages ago, here’s again that delightful little rhyme by Hans Christian Andersen.


“Oh, were I rich! Such was my wish, yea such
When hardly three feet high, I longed for much.
Oh, were I rich! an officer were I,
With sword, and uniform, and plume so high.
And the time came, and officer was I! But yet I grew not rich. Alas, poor me! Have pity, Thou, who all man’s wants dost see.
“I sat one evening sunk in dreams of bliss,
A maid of seven years old gave me a kiss,
I at that time was rich in poesy

And tales of old, though poor as poor could be;
But all she asked for was this poesy. Then was I rich, but not in gold, poor me! As Thou dost know, who all men’s hearts canst see.

Finding solace in poetry is what my mind does every time my heart aches at contemplating the inaccessible beauties of the world. A typical instance would be when I’m building a new rod, which I am — a really neat 4# from MHX, knowing already I’ll have to pair it with my antediluvian Loop plastic thing, of great lightness but subpar operation and ugly looks.

The still-unborn rod whispers to my ears: don’t try to look innocent, you know very well what would suit me…

what would suit it

I hear the voice of an unfinished rod. I think I’m possessed.


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