THEY do but grope in learning's pedant round, Who on the fantasies of sense bestow An idol substance, bidding us bow low Before those shades of being which are found, Stirring or still, on man's brief trial-ground; As if such shapes and moods, which come and go, Had aught of Truth or Life in their poor show, To sway or judge, and skill to sane or wound. Son of immortal seed, high-destined Man! Know thy dread gift, -- a creature, yet a cause: Each mind is its own centre, and it draws Home to itself, and moulds in its thought's span All outward things, the vassals of its will, Aided by Heaven, by earth unthwarted still. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE CRUISE OF THE MONITOR [MARCH 9, 1862] by GEORGE M. BAKER ARS VICTRIX (IMITATED FROM THEOPHILE GAUTIER) by HENRY AUSTIN DOBSON THE DESERTED VILLAGE by OLIVER GOLDSMITH A CHRISTMAS GHOST-STORY; CHRISTMAS-EVE 1899 by THOMAS HARDY SONNET: DEATH-WARNINGS by FRANCISCO GOMEZ DE QUEVEDO Y VILLEGAS A MINUET ON REACHING THE AGE OF FIFTY by GEORGE SANTAYANA |