WHEN I was young I had a care Lest I should cheat me of my share Of that which makes it sweet to strive For life, and dying still survive, A name in sunshine written higher Than lark or poet dare aspire. But I grew weary doing well, Besides, 'twas sweeter in that hell, Down with the loud banditti people Who robbed the orchards, climbed the steeple For jackdaws' eggs and made the cock Crow ere 'twas daylight on the clock. I was so very bad the neighbours Spoke of me at their daily labours. And now I'm drinking wine in France, The helpless child of circumstance. To-morrow will be loud with war, How will I be accounted for? It is too late now to retrieve A fallen dream, too late to grieve A name unmade, but not too late To thank the gods for what is great; A keen-edged sword, a soldier's heart, Is greater than a poet's art. And greater than a poet's fame A little grave that has no name. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...LITTLE FEET by ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN O SLEEP, MY BABE! by SARA COLERIDGE BIRD AND BROOK by WILLIAM HENRY DAVIES A SHROPSHIRE LAD: 4. REVEILLE by ALFRED EDWARD HOUSMAN OVERHEARD ON A SALTMARSH by HAROLD MONRO TO A LADY: SHE REFUSING TO CONTINUE A DISPUTE WITH ME by MATTHEW PRIOR SONNETS FOR PICTURES: A VENETIAN PASTORAL (BY GIOGIONE) by DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI NORTHBOUN' by LUCY ARIEL WILLIAMS FOOTLIGHT MOTIFS: 1. MRS. VERNON CASTLE by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS |