WHETHER men do laugh or weep, Whether they do wake or sleep, Whether they die young or old, Whether they feel heat or cold; There is, underneath the sun, Nothing in true earnest done. All our pride is but a jest; None are worst, and none are best; Grief and joy, and hope and fear, Play their pageants everywhere: Vain opinion all doth sway, And the world is but a play. Powers above in clouds do sit, Mocking our poor apish wit; That so lamely, with such state, Their high glory imitate: No ill can be felt but pain, And that happy men disdain. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE HERONS OF ELMWOOD by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW THE CONFLICT OF CONVICTIONS by HERMAN MELVILLE I WOULD NOT LIFT THY VEIL by A. LOUISE ASHWORTH EMBLEMS OF LOVE: 38. NO PERJURY IN LOVE by PHILIP AYRES THE FROZEN GRAIL (TO PEARY AND HIS MEN) by ELSA BARKER THE BLUES; A LITERARY ECLOGUE by GEORGE GORDON BYRON INSCRIPTION FOR A STONE ERECTED AT SOWING OF A GROVE OF OAKS by WILLIAM COWPER |