THE shepherd's brow, fronting forked lightning, owns The horror and the havoc and the glory Of it. Angels fall, they are towers, from heaven -- a story Of just, majestical, and giant groans. But man -- we, scaffold of score brittle bones; Who breathe, from groundlong babyhood to hoary Age gasp; whose breath is our memento mori -- What bass is our viol for tragic tones? He! Hand to mouth he lives, and voids with shame; And, blazoned in however bold the name, Man Jack the man is, just; his mate a hussy. And I that die these deaths, that feed this flame, That ... in smooth spoons spy life's masque mirrored: tame My tempests there, my fire and fever fussy. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...HOMAGE TO SEXTUS PROPERTIUS: 9 by EZRA POUND THE DAY IS DONE by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW THE WORLD (1) by HENRY VAUGHAN THE LIVING GOD by ABRAHAM IBN EZRA THE JACKET OF GREY by CAROLINE AUGUSTA BALL ZOPHIEL; OR THE BRIDE OF SEVEN: CANTO 2. DEATH OF ALTHEETOR by MARIA GOWEN BROOKS |