 | Three Hundred Sonnets |  |
202
MODERN.
Behold, I stand upon a speck of earthTo work the works allotted me,—and die;
Glad among toils to snatch a little mirth,
And, when I must, unmurmuring down to lie
In the same soil that gave me food and birth:
For all that went before me, what care I?
The past, the future,—these are but a dream;
I want the tangible good of present worth,
And heed not wisps of light that dance and gleam
Over the marshes of the foolish past:
We are a race the best, because the last,
Improving all, and happier day by day
To think our chosen lot hath not been cast
In those old puerile times, well swept away.
| Three Hundred Sonnets | |