IF I were a fisher, I Surely would not long lack living Triumph, to feel fierce fish giving Futile tug at worm or fly. Such things come with striving: even Those who bait the jungle lion Doubtless see their own strange Sion When they know its cubs bereaven. Worldly-wiseman filches fools, Drains their sap to starch his collars; And poets, though they're weak in dollars, Can pluck the moonlight from cold pools. All these people have their little Eldorados, and they find them Sometime, sinewed strife behind them Fading. Mine alone is brittle, Vain as carven grapes at touch, Or, like mirage, falsely near. I alone am given to fear Of that too-little or too-much Which I seek but never find, Snare or startle from its sleep But feel it wane to wind, And then go whirring deft and deep Down all the grottoes of my mind! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...PORTRAIT OF ONE DEAD by CONRAD AIKEN THE HEMP (A VIRGINIA LEGEND) by STEPHEN VINCENT BENET WORDS IN A CERTAIN APPROPRIATE MODE by HAYDEN CARRUTH THE RETURN (2) by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON DOMESDAY BOOK: ARCHIBALD LOWELL by EDGAR LEE MASTERS OCTAVES: 2 by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON THE POET'S TESTAMENT by GEORGE SANTAYANA BEFORE THE FLOWERS OF FRIENDSHIP FADED FADED: 21 by GERTRUDE STEIN |