Three Hundred Sonnets | ||
204
PRACTICE.
This body, O the body of this death!Strive as thou wilt, do all that mortal can,
This is the sum,—a man is but a man,
And weak in error strangely wandereth
Down flowery ways with pain and peril fraught,
Conscious of what he doth, and what he ought:
Alas! but wherefore?—scarce my plaintive breath
Wafts its faint question to the listening sky,
When thus in answer some kind Spirit saith;
Man, thou art mean, although thine aims be high;
All matter hath one law, concent'ring strong
To some attractive point,—and thy world's core
Is the foul gravitating throne of Wrong,—
Which Right shall soon throw down for evermore.
Three Hundred Sonnets | ||