Laurella and other poems by John Todhunter |
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HOW IT STRIKES THE CULTURE
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 | Laurella and other poems |  |
153
HOW IT STRIKES THE CULTURE PHILOSOPHER.
'Tis written:—‘If thine eye offend,
Pluck it out!’
Nay hold, my friend!
Stop a moment—is it wise
Recklessly to tear out our eyes,
Lest they sometime may offend us?
Looks the danger so tremendous,
When we strive to walk by sight,
That we should, trembling, quench our light
And grope along, our path to find,
Blind and leaders of the blind?
Stop a moment—is it wise
Recklessly to tear out our eyes,
Lest they sometime may offend us?
Looks the danger so tremendous,
When we strive to walk by sight,
That we should, trembling, quench our light
And grope along, our path to find,
Blind and leaders of the blind?
Still his cry is:—‘Out, vile jelly!’
Men will go crawling on their belly,
Eyeless,—doing ill what dogs do well,
Finding their way by dint of smell!
‘This way our Master's footsteps went.’
What! do you never lose the scent?
'Tis so befouled, one might suppose
The eyes should supplement the nose.
Men will go crawling on their belly,
Eyeless,—doing ill what dogs do well,
Finding their way by dint of smell!
‘This way our Master's footsteps went.’
What! do you never lose the scent?
'Tis so befouled, one might suppose
The eyes should supplement the nose.
154
And you cripples—halt and maimed!
Do you never feel ashamed
Of limping in such sorry plight?
If a limb were lost in fight,
Of the stump one might be proud;
But to glory in avowed
Self-mutilation, pardon me,
Looks like downright insanity.
Prepare to run the race of life,
And use the amputating knife
On your own limbs! Well, heaven preserve us!
You christian stoics make one nervous.
I can't maltreat my flesh and blood,
As if 'twere only so much mud,
I must strive onward all complete—
Eyes, ears, nose, mouth, and hands and feet.
It seems to me I need them all;
If for whole men your heaven's too small,
I can't get in—I'm satisfied,
Till it's enlarged, to—stand outside.
Do you never feel ashamed
Of limping in such sorry plight?
If a limb were lost in fight,
Of the stump one might be proud;
But to glory in avowed
Self-mutilation, pardon me,
Looks like downright insanity.
Prepare to run the race of life,
And use the amputating knife
On your own limbs! Well, heaven preserve us!
You christian stoics make one nervous.
I can't maltreat my flesh and blood,
As if 'twere only so much mud,
I must strive onward all complete—
Eyes, ears, nose, mouth, and hands and feet.
It seems to me I need them all;
If for whole men your heaven's too small,
I can't get in—I'm satisfied,
Till it's enlarged, to—stand outside.
(Strange, while I scarce can stir a peg
They make such running on one leg!)
They make such running on one leg!)
| Laurella and other poems | |