WHAT is this life, this active guest, Which robs our peaceful clay of rest? This trifle, which while we retain, Causes inquietude and pain? This breath, which we no sooner find, Than in a moment 'tis resigned? Whose momentary noise, when o'er, Is never, never heard of more! And even monarchs, when it ends, Become offensive to their friends; Emit a putrid noisome smell, To those that loved 'em e'er so well! Pond'ring these things within my heart, Surely, said I—life is a f—t! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: EUGENE CARMAN by EDGAR LEE MASTERS THE PRICE OF WOMEN by KAREN SWENSON TO MR. S.T. COLERIDGE by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD VISION OF BELSHAZZAR by GEORGE GORDON BYRON OVERHEARD ON A SALTMARSH by HAROLD MONRO TACT by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON MONNA INNOMINATA, A SONNET OF SONNETS: 2 by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI |