 | 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.
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