The Mayfly is torn by the swallow, the sparrow

spear'd by the shrike,

And the whole little wood where I sit is a world

of plunder and prey.

5.

We are puppets, Man in his pride, and Beauty fair

in her flower;

Do we move ourselves, or are moved by an unseen

hand at a game

That pushes us off from the board, and others ever

succeed?

Ah yet, we cannot be kind to each other here for

an hour;

We whisper, and hint, and chuckle, and grin at a

brother's shame;

However we brave it out, we men are a little

breed.

6.

A monstrous eft was of old the Lord and Master

of Earth,

For him did his high sun flame, and his river

billowing ran,

And he felt himself in his force to be Nature's

crowning race.

As nine months go to the shaping an infant ripe

for his birth,

So many a million of ages have gone to the making

of man :

He now is first, but is he the last is he not too

base?

7.

The man of science himself is fonder of glory, and

vain,

An eye well-practised in nature, a spirit bounded

and poor;

The passionate heart of the poet is whirl'd into

folly and vice.

I would not marvel at either, but keep a temperate

brain;

For not to desire or admire, if a man could learn

it, were more

Than to walk all day like the sultan of old in a

garden of spice.

8.

For the drift of the Maker is dark, an Isis hid by

the veil.

Who knows the ways of the world, how God will bring them about?

Our planet is one, the suns are many, the world

is wide.

Shall I weep if a Poland fall? shall I shriek if a

Hungary fail?

Or an infant civilisation be ruled with rod or with

knout?

I have not made the world, and He that made it

will guide.

9.

Be mine a philosopher's life in the quiet woodland

ways,

Where if I cannot be gay let a passionless peace

be my lot,

Far-off from the clamour of liars belied in the

hubbub of lies;

From the long-neck'd geese of the world that are

ever hissing dispraise

Because their natures are little, and, whether he

heed it or not,

Where each man walks with his head in a cloud of

poisonous flies.

10.

And most of all would I flee from the cruel

madness of love,

The honey of poison-flowers and all the measure

less ill.

Ah Maud, you milkwhite fawn, you are all unmeet for a wife.

Your mother is mute in her grave as her image in marble above;

Your father is ever in London, you wander about

at your will;

You have but fed on the roses, and lain in the

lilies of life.