01.03.2008, 17:33
'Twere surely hard to toil without an aim.
Then shall the toil of an immortal mind
Spending its strength for good od human kind
Have no reward on earth but empty fame?
Oh, say not so. 'Tis nos the echoed name,
Dear though it be - dear to the wafting wind,
That is not all the poet leaves behind,
That once has kindled an undying flame.
And what is that? It is a happy feeling
Begot by bird, or flower, or vernal bee.
'Tis aught that acts, unconsciously revealing
To mortal man his immortality.
Then think, O Poet, think how bland, how healing,
The beauty thou hast taught thy fellow men to see.
Then shall the toil of an immortal mind
Spending its strength for good od human kind
Have no reward on earth but empty fame?
Oh, say not so. 'Tis nos the echoed name,
Dear though it be - dear to the wafting wind,
That is not all the poet leaves behind,
That once has kindled an undying flame.
And what is that? It is a happy feeling
Begot by bird, or flower, or vernal bee.
'Tis aught that acts, unconsciously revealing
To mortal man his immortality.
Then think, O Poet, think how bland, how healing,
The beauty thou hast taught thy fellow men to see.