How little curious is man Who hath not searched his mystery a span But dreams of mines of treasure Which he neglects to measure For three score years and ten Walks to and fro amid his fellow men Oer this firm tract of continental land His fancy bearing no divining wand. Our uninquiring corpses lie more low Than our lifes curiosity doth go Our most ambitious steps climb not so high As in their hourly sport the sparrows fly. And yonder cloud's blown farther in a day Than our most vagrant feet may ever stray. Surely, O Lord, he hath not greatly erred Who hath so little from his birth place stirred. He wanders through this low and shallow world Scarcely his bolder thoughts and hopes unfurled Through this low walled world which his huge sin Hath hardly room to rest and harbor in. Bearing his head just oer some fallow ground Some cowslip'd meadows where the bitterns sound. He wanders round until his end draws nigh And then lays down his aged head to die. And this is life''"this is that famous strife. His head doth coast a fathom from the land Six feet from where his grovelling feet do stand. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...FOR LOVE'S SAKE, KISS ME ONCE AGAIN! by BEN JONSON GLOTTO'S TOWER by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW MACGREGOR'S GATHERING by WALTER SCOTT WHY THUS LONGING by HARRIET WINSLOW SEWALL VENUS AND ADONIS by WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE |