Why so defiant, gifted one, of death? Why so contemptuous that life is life? So careless of the moment's tonic breath, Wherewith the miracle of air is rife? Why this impatience with the commonplace? Which were it strange, then life were all awry. The usual day, the harvest's level grace, The household's homely task; why these deny? Is there no glory in the multitude Of gentle virtues, and of constant faith, That genius must pose the dismal mood Of waiting ever on a midnight wraith? Is tragedy, or cynic scorn, the more Than the warm hearthside, and the open door? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SPRING IN NEW HAMPSHIRE by CLAUDE MCKAY YOUNG BLOOD by STEPHEN VINCENT BENET REGARDING CHAINSAWS by HAYDEN CARRUTH THE BUTCHER SHOP by DAVID IGNATOW THE JOBHOLDER by DAVID IGNATOW EVENTIDE by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON |