WHETHER men do laugh or weep, Whether they do wake or sleep, Whether they die young or old, Whether they feel heat or cold; There is, underneath the sun, Nothing in true earnest done. All our pride is but a jest; None are worst, and none are best; Grief and joy, and hope and fear, Play their pageants everywhere: Vain opinion all doth sway, And the world is but a play. Powers above in clouds do sit, Mocking our poor apish wit; That so lamely, with such state, Their high glory imitate: No ill can be felt but pain, And that happy men disdain. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...OLD TRAILS by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON FROST AT MIDNIGHT by SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE THE VILLAIN by WILLIAM HENRY DAVIES A LETTER TO LADY [MISS] MARGARET-CAVANDISH-HOLLES-HARLEY, WHEN A CHILD by MATTHEW PRIOR SONG, FR. THE TWO GENTELEM OF VERONA by WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE SONGS OF TRAVEL: 26. IF THIS WERE FAITH by ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON |