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The Wisdom Of Eld
We spend our lives in learning pilotage,And grow good steersmen when the vessel's crank!
Gap-toothed he spake, and with a tottering shank
Sidled to gain the sunny bench of Age.
It is the sentence which completes that stage;
A testament of wisdom reading blank.
The seniors of the race, on their last plank,
Pass mumbling it as nature's final page.
These, bent by such experience, are the band
Who captain young enthusiasts to maintain
What things we view, and Earth's decree withstand,
Lest dreaded Change, long dammed by dull decay,
Should bring the world a vessel steered by brain,
And ancients musical at close of day.
(The end)
George Meredith's poem: Wisdom Of Eld
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Earth loves her young: a preference manifest:She prompts them to her fruits and flower-beds;Their beauty with her choicest interthreads,And makes her revel of their merry zest;As in our East much were it in our West,If men had risen to do the work of heads.Her gabbling grey she eyes askant, nor treadsThe ways they walk; by what they speak oppressed.How wrought they in their zenith? 'Tis not writ;Not all; yet she by one sure sign can read:Have they but held her laws and nature dear,They mouth no sentence of inverted wit.More prizes she her beasts than this high breedWry in
Earth's Preference
Earth loves her young: a preference manifest:She prompts them to her fruits and flower-beds;Their beauty with her choicest interthreads,And makes her revel of their merry zest;As in our East much were it in our West,If men had risen to do the work of heads.Her gabbling grey she eyes askant, nor treadsThe ways they walk; by what they speak oppressed.How wrought they in their zenith? 'Tis not writ;Not all; yet she by one sure sign can read:Have they but held her laws and nature dear,They mouth no sentence of inverted wit.More prizes she her beasts than this high breedWry in
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Close Echo hears the woodman's axe,To double on it, as in glee,With clap of hands, and little lacksOf meaning in her repartee.For all shall fall,As one has done,The tree of me,Of thee the tree;And unto allThe fate we waitReveals the wheelsWhereon we run:We tower to flower,We spread the shade,We drop for crop,At length are laid;Are rolled in mould,From chop and lop:And are we thick in woodland tracks,Or tempting of our stature we,The end is one, we do but waxFor service over land and sea.So, strike! the likeShall thus of us,My brawny woodman, claim the tax.Nor foe thy blow,Though wood be good,And
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