Poems (Hardy)/Self
For works with similar titles, see Self.
SELF
YON jay that sits so pert upon the bough,Though but an egg a June or two ago,Knows now the universe was made for him,—Was made for him for perch and nest,No prettier logic in his head for proofThan spiteful peck and hoarse kul-leer.
Yon lithe, long leopard, crouching there,Where unaware the gentle deer crop grassUpon this verdant earth of theirs,Knows well that till he change his spotsThe universe is his.
Yon baby in his mother's armsWill have the newly-risen moonTo ease the ache of coming teethUpon its silver rim,—"Give me the moon!"Dare you deny the universe is his?
Yon king, with millions at his beck,Will prove, with blood and life not his,The world was made that he might rule,And men were made that he might prove it his.
Yon beauty, royal with youth's smile,Must pick and choose the world's gifts o'er,And keep and throw away at will,—Now prove the universe is not for her.
O potent self! In bird, or beast, or man,Assert thy place, supremely first,But know there is a first that shall be last;There is a last that never shall be first.