The misspelt scrawl, upon the wall By some Pompeian idler traced, In ashes packed (ironic fact!) Lies eighteen centuries uneffaced, While many a page of bard and sage, Deemed once mankind's immortal gain, Lost from Time's ark, leaves no more mark Than a keel's furrow through the main. O Chance and Change! our buzz's range Is scarcely wider than a fly's; Then let us play at fame to-day, To-morrow be unknown and wise; And while the fair beg locks of hair, And autographs, and Lord knows what, Quick! let us scratch our moment's match, Make our brief blaze, and be forgot! Too pressed to wait, upon her slate Scarce written, these no longer please, And her own finger rubs them out: It may ensue, fair girl, that you Years hence this yellowing leaf may see, And put to task, your memory ask In vain, "This Lowell, who was he?" | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...BUNKER HILL by GEORGE HENRY CALVERT A SONG FOR ST. CECILIA'S DAY by JOHN DRYDEN PASSION AND LOVE by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR ONCE BY THE PACIFIC by ROBERT FROST THE BROKEN WATER WHEEL by GHALIB IBN RIBAH AL-HAJJAM ON AN INTAGLIO HEAD OF MINERVA (2) by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH FINDING CYNTHIA IN PAIN, AND CRYING; A SONNET by PHILIP AYRES |