Oh, that we were our primal ancestors. In a warm bog a little clump of slime. That from our sap, mute plasm and blind spores, Cool deaths, calm lives to viewless growth might climb. A leaf of seaweed or a dune, wind-fed, Whose stolid base but casual waves would touch. A sea-gull's wing, a dragon-fly's bright head Would be too intricate, endure too much. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE LISBON PACKET by GEORGE GORDON BYRON THIRD BOOK OF AIRS: SONG 20 by THOMAS CAMPION ON SIR PALMES FAIRBORNE'S TOMB, IN WESTERMINSTER ABBEY by JOHN DRYDEN THE MEDAL; A SATIRE AGAINST SEDITION by JOHN DRYDEN SONG OF SUMMER by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR EPISTLE TO ROBERT, EARL OF OXFORD, AND EARL MORTIMER by ALEXANDER POPE |