THE shepherd's brow, fronting forked lightning, owns The horror and the havoc and the glory Of it. Angels fall, they are towers, from heaven -- a story Of just, majestical, and giant groans. But man -- we, scaffold of score brittle bones; Who breathe, from groundlong babyhood to hoary Age gasp; whose breath is our memento mori -- What bass is our viol for tragic tones? He! Hand to mouth he lives, and voids with shame; And, blazoned in however bold the name, Man Jack the man is, just; his mate a hussy. And I that die these deaths, that feed this flame, That ... in smooth spoons spy life's masque mirrored: tame My tempests there, my fire and fever fussy. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ISN'T IT ROMANTIC by KAREN SWENSON RICH AND POOR; OR, SAINT AND SINNER by THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK A LEAVE-TAKING by ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE UNCLE AN' AUNT by WILLIAM BARNES DUNCTON HILL by HILAIRE BELLOC |