These lies are not my life, which is ill-met; Who feeds corruption by that poison dies: A high-flung course all beauty, truth, descries, And no brave wings have anchorage in this sweat. What stunning topsy-turvy feeds this fret Of need devouring substance from my eyes? Who fight and die are infinitely wise, Beyond this pall where our grim sun is set. To die, or not to know, is saner good; But glimpsing truth, and never to pursue, To see her beckoning in a dazzling view, And never to possess her lips for food -- Is how we live and how at "thirty" know Few men have suffered thus, or died just so. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...YOUNG LINCOLN by EDWIN MARKHAM I AM BORNE ONWARD by SARA TEASDALE EPITAPH IN BALLADE FORM by FRANCOIS VILLON DEPARTURE IN THE DARK by CECIL DAY LEWIS AFAR IN THE DESERT by THOMAS PRINGLE THE DAY-DREAM: THE SLEEPING BEAUTY by ALFRED TENNYSON TO THE EARL OF WARWICK ON THE DEATH OF MR. ADDISON by THOMAS TICKELL |