HOW vilely 'twere to misdeserve The poet's gift of perfect speech, In song to try, with trembling nerve, The limit of its utmost reach, Only to sound the wretched praise Of what to-morrow shall not be; So mocking with immortal bays The cross-bones of mortality! I do not thus. My faith is fast That all the loveliness I sing Is made to bear the mortal blast, And blossom in a better Spring. Doubts of eternity ne'er cross The Lover's mind, divinely clear: @3For ever@1 is the gain or loss Which maddens him with hope or fear: So trifles serve for his relief, And trifles make him sick and pale; And yet his pleasure and his grief Are both on a majestic scale. The chance, indefinitely small, Of issue infinitely great, Eclipses finite interests all, And has the dignity of fate. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE VIKING GRAVE AT LADBY by KAREN SWENSON SONG; IN IMITATION OF SHAKESPEARE'S 'BLOW, BLOW, THOU WINTER WIND' by JAMES BEATTIE PSALM 70 by OLD TESTAMENT BIBLE A BOOK OF AIRS: SONG 27 by THOMAS CAMPION THE SOUL OF BRITAIN by HENRY CHAPPELL |