YE little think what toil it was to build A world of men imperfect even as this, Where we conceive of Good by what we miss, Of Ill by that wherewith best days are filled; A world whose every atom is self-willed, Whose corner-stone is propt on artifice, Whose joy is shorter-lived than woman's kiss, Whose wisdom hoarded is but to be spilled. Yet this is better than a life of caves, Whose highest art was scratching on a bone, Or chipping toilsome arrowheads of flint; Better, though doomed to hear while Cleon raves, To see wit's want eterned in paint or stone, And wade the drain-drenched shoals of daily print. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...COMPLAINT OF THE ABSENCE OF HER LOVER BEING UPON THE SEA by HENRY HOWARD ON GROWING OLD by JOHN MASEFIELD THE PROGRESS OF POETRY by JONATHAN SWIFT DIRGE FOR TWO VETERANS by WALT WHITMAN THE YOUNG BROTHER by WILLIAM ROSE BENET |