HOW profitless the relics that we cull, Troubling the last holds of ambitious Rome, Unless they chasten fancies that presume Too high, or idle agitations lull! Of the world's flatteries if the brain be full, To have no seat for thought were better doom, Like this old helmet, or the eyeless skull Of him who gloried in its nodding plume. Heaven out of view, our wishes what are they? Our fond regrets tenacious in their grasp? The Sage's theory? the Poet's lay? Mere Fibulae without a robe to clasp; Obsolete lamps, whose light no time recalls; Urns without ashes, tearless lacrymals! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...JOY (1) by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON THE LADY'S 'YES' by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING YOUTH AND AGE by SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE ON MONSIEUR'S DEPARTURE by ELIZABETH I ZION, OR THE CITY OF GOD by JOHN NEWTON THE KINGDOM OF GOD by FRANCIS THOMPSON THE WORLD'S WAY by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH |