So many worlds, so much to do, So little done, such things to be, How know I what had need of thee? For thou wert strong as thou wert true. The fame is quenched that I forsaw, The head hath missed an earthly wreath: I curse not nature, no, nor death; For nothing is that errs from law. We pass; the path that each man trod Is dim, or will be dim, with weeds: What fame is left for human deeds In endless age? It rests with God. O hollow wraith of dying fame, Fade wholly, while the soul exults, And self-enfolds the large results Of force that would have forged a name. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...HYMN TO MONT BLANC [IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNI] by SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE TO MY BOOKSELLER by BEN JONSON THOSE EVENING BELLS by THOMAS MOORE THE RUBAIYAT, 1879 EDITION: 68 by OMAR KHAYYAM TO THE UNKNOWN EROS: BOOK 1: 3. WINTER by COVENTRY KERSEY DIGHTON PATMORE BISHOP HATTO [AND THE RATS] by ROBERT SOUTHEY HESPERIA by ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE |