Self Criticism
SHALL I go all my bright days singing,(A little pallid, a trifle wan)The failing note still vainly clingingTo the throat of the stricken swan?
Shall I never feel and meet the urgeTo bugle out beyond my senseThat the fittest song of earth is a dirge,And only fools trust Providence?
Than this better the reed never turned flute,Better than this no song,Better a stony silence, better a muteMouth and a cloven tongue.
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