THEY do but grope in learning's pedant round, Who on the fantasies of sense bestow An idol substance, bidding us bow low Before those shades of being which are found, Stirring or still, on man's brief trial-ground; As if such shapes and moods, which come and go, Had aught of Truth or Life in their poor show, To sway or judge, and skill to sane or wound. Son of immortal seed, high-destined Man! Know thy dread gift, -- a creature, yet a cause: Each mind is its own centre, and it draws Home to itself, and moulds in its thought's span All outward things, the vassals of its will, Aided by Heaven, by earth unthwarted still. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE SAME FOREVER by HORATIO (HORATIUS) BONAR CLEVEDON VERSES: 4. CUI BONO? by THOMAS EDWARD BROWN DAMAETAS by GEORGE GORDON BYRON NAPOLEON'S SNUFF-BOX by GEORGE GORDON BYRON OH WOULD THAT I COULD FLY TO YOU by HARRIET E. CARSKADEN PROGRESS OF VICE by SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE |