When baffled days seem each to drag a chain, Dead hopes are laid in mortuary of Fate, And our small hearts lament the wide estate God gave them for vast dreams that bring no gain, Remains the soft, hushed power of snow and rain, Of little flowers, that sunder rocks too great For Thor to cleave. Mark how this frost of late With glazier's emeril works upon the pane! Know you the silent force of growing grain,— How the winged pine-seed drifts to recreate? With tedious hydraulics, seeming vain, The tiny ant might undermine a state. Or tell me, how was mighty Baldur slain, Shy mistletoe, plucked by Valhalla's gate? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...IF IT WERE NOT FOR YOU by HAYDEN CARRUTH THE LAST MAN'S CLUB by JAMES GALVIN FOR THE NEW YEAR by EDWIN MARKHAM A LETTER ON THE USE OF MACHINE GUNS AT WEDDINGS by KENNETH PATCHEN ODE: THE MEDITERRANEAN by GEORGE SANTAYANA ESSAY: AT NIGHT THE AUTOPORTRAIT AT NIGHT by ELENI SIKELIANOS |