HOW are we living? Like herbs in a garden that stand in a row, And have nothing to do but to stand there and grow? Our powers of perceiving So dull and so dead, They simply extend to the objects about us, -- The moth, having all his dark pleasure without us, -- The worm in his bed! If thus we are living, And fading and falling, and rotting, alas! -- Like the grass, or the flowers that grow in the grass, -- Is life worth our having? The insect a-humming -- The wild bird is better, that sings as it flies, -- The ox, that turns up his great face to the skies, When the thunder is coming. Where are we living? In passion, and pain, and remorse do we dwell, -- Creating, yet terribly hating, our hell? No triumph achieving? No grossness refining? The wild tree does more; for his coat of rough barks He trims with green mosses, and checks with the marks Of the long summer shining. We're dying, not living: Our senses shut up, and our hearts faint and cold; Upholding old things just because they are old; Our good spirits grieving, We suffer our springs Of promise to pass without sowing the land, And hungry and sad in the harvest-time stand, Expecting good things! |