Boon Nature yields each day a brag which we now first behold, And trains us on to slight the new, as if it were the old: But blest is he, who, playing deep, yet haply asks not why, Too busied with the crowded hour to fear to live or die. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...WELCOME by WILLIAM BROWNE (1591-1643) THE FORERUNNERS by GEORGE HERBERT THE ROARING FROST by ALICE MEYNELL THE DRUM: THE NARRATIVE OF THE DEMON OF TEDWORTH by EDITH SITWELL MY MOTHER'S GARDEN by ALICE E. ALLEN WRITTEN ON THE LEAVES OF A FAN by FRANCIS ATTERBURY |