I could not bring this splendid world nor any trading beast <br />In charge of it, to defer, no, not to give ear, not in the least <br />Appearance, to my handsome prophecies, <br />which here I ponder and put by. <br /> <br />I am left simpler, less encumbered, by the consciousness <br />that I shall by no pebble in my dirty sling <br />avail To slay one purple giant four feet high and distribute arms <br />among his tall attendants, who spit at his name <br />when spitting on the ground: <br />They will be found one day Prone where they fell, or dead sitting <br />—and pock-marked wall <br />Supporting the beautiful back straight as an oak <br />before it is old. <br /> <br />I have learned to fail. And I have had my say. <br />Yet shall I sing until my voice crack <br />(this being my leisure, this my holiday) <br />That man was a special thing, and no commodity, <br />a thing improper to be sold.<br /><br />Edna St. Vincent Millay<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/lines-written-in-recapitulation/
