AH God! the petty fools of rhyme That shriek and sweat in pigmy wars Before the stony face of Time, And look'd at by the silent stars; Who hate each other for a song, And do their little best to bite And pinch their brethren in the throng, And scratch the very dead for spite; And strain to make an inch of room For their sweet selves, and cannot hear The sullen Lethe rolling doom On them and theirs and all things here; When one small touch of Charity Could lift them nearer Godlike state Than if the crowded Orb should cry Like those who cried Diana great. And I too talk, and lose the touch I talk of. Surely, after all, The noblest answer unto such Is perfect stillness when they brawl. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: IMANUEL EHRENHARDT by EDGAR LEE MASTERS TEARS by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING A FATHER OF WOMEN: AD SOROREM E. B. by ALICE MEYNELL IDYLLS OF THE KING: GERAINT AND ENID by ALFRED TENNYSON THE WINDOW; OR, THE SONG OF THE WRENS: THE LETTER by ALFRED TENNYSON THE MEDITATION OF THE OLD FISHERMAN by WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS |