HERE to its pristine dust again is hurl'd, Of an inconstant soul, the little world; He liv'd, as if to some great things design'd, With substance small, boasting a princely mind. Of body crooked, and distorted face, But manners that did much his form disgrace. In broils, his rage pusht him beyond his art, Was kick'd, would face again, but wanted heart. In his whole course of life so swell'd with Pride, That, fail'd in all's intrigues, for grief he died. Thus with ambitious wings we strive to soar, Flutter a while, fall, and are seen no more. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...COLORS by STEPHEN VINCENT BENET FRAGMENTARY BLUE by ROBERT FROST THE OCTOROON by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON TO W.E.B. DUBOIS - SCHOLAR by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON THE WALL STREET PIT, MAY, 1901 by EDWIN MARKHAM |