TO stab my youth with desperate knives, to wear This paltry age's gaudy livery, To let each base hand filch my treasury, To mesh my soul within a woman's hair, And be mere Fortune's lackeyed groom, -- I swear I love it not! these things are less to me Than the thin foam that frets upon the sea, Less than the thistle-down of summer air Which hath no seed: better to stand aloof Far from these slanderous fools who mock my life Knowing me not, better the lowliest roof Fit for the meanest hind to sojourn in, Than to go back to that hoarse cave of strife Where my white soul first kissed the mouth of sin. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...MEMORIAL DAY by WILLIAM E. BROOKS AGAMEMNON: THE BEACONS by AESCHYLUS A SONG FOR THE SINGLE TABLE ON NEW YEAR'S DAY by ELIZABETH FRANCES AMHERST DAVIDS ELEGIE UPON JONATHAN by JOSEPH BEAUMONT TO THE DEAD by JOHN GARDINER CALKINS BRAINARD |