THIS day beginning to a creature gave Not apt to love, though sacred Friendship's slave. Grandeur and pomp may catch, not fix, her eyes; Their charms the trifler knows not how to prize. Her little soul, to meaner prospects bound, Prefers substantial happiness to sound. An humble cottage, and a chrystal flood, A silent grotto, or a leafy wood, More strike the sense of this insipid creature Than all the rich magnificence in nature. Yet to this merit may the wretch pretend, That Howe and Pope vouchsafe to call her friend. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CONTRA MORTEM: THE WOMAN'S GENITALS by HAYDEN CARRUTH THE BIRDS DO THUS by ROBERT FROST STREET-CRIES: 7. A SONG OF LOVE by SIDNEY LANIER ON A CERTAIN CRITIC by AMY LOWELL DOMESDAY BOOK: AT FAIRBANKS by EDGAR LEE MASTERS SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: THE VILLAGE ATHEIST by EDGAR LEE MASTERS |