WHEN I was young I had a care Lest I should cheat me of my share Of that which makes it sweet to strive For life, and dying still survive, A name in sunshine written higher Than lark or poet dare aspire. But I grew weary doing well, Besides, 'twas sweeter in that hell, Down with the loud banditti people Who robbed the orchards, climbed the steeple For jackdaws' eggs and made the cock Crow ere 'twas daylight on the clock. I was so very bad the neighbours Spoke of me at their daily labours. And now I'm drinking wine in France, The helpless child of circumstance. To-morrow will be loud with war, How will I be accounted for? It is too late now to retrieve A fallen dream, too late to grieve A name unmade, but not too late To thank the gods for what is great; A keen-edged sword, a soldier's heart, Is greater than a poet's art. And greater than a poet's fame A little grave that has no name. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THREE SONNETS by RICHARD WILBUR IN A BREATH; TO THE WILLIAMSON BROTHERS by CARL SANDBURG A SOLDIER LISTENS by JEAN STARR UNTERMEYER THE ANGEL, FR. SONGS OF EXPERIENCE by WILLIAM BLAKE LOVE-LILY by DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI SONNET: 55 by WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE |