Droop'st thou and fail'st? but these have never tired; <br />winds of the region, free, they shine and sing, <br />unurged, unguerdon'd: hast thou then desired <br />to be with them and trail'st a useless wing? <br />Self-pity hath thee in her clinging damp, <br />and makes a siren-music of thy woes <br />to lure thy feet into that reptile-swamp <br />where rancour's muddy stream, festering, throes. <br />Cunning is her condolence with the snarl <br />of canker'd memory or the soft tear <br />for vanisht sweetness: come, an honest parle, <br />air for thy ailment! make these wrongs appear. <br />Ay, this hath spat at thee, and that hath flung <br />his native mud, and that with bilious guile <br />most plausible — what! hast thou loved and sung <br />as was in thee, and need'st do else than smile? <br />(Heed not that subtle demon that would prompt <br />to measure thee by them; so humbled yet <br />thou art not, nor so beggar'd thine accompt: <br />what thou art, that thou hast, and know'st thy debt.) <br />And in thy house of love the venom'd dart <br />was thrust within thy side — Even so! must then <br />the gather'd ripeness of thy mind and heart <br />be turn'd to flies? that is no way for men. <br />Who said, and rid himself of usual awe, <br />I prize not man, save as his metal rings <br />of god or hero? Hast thou made a law, <br />live by thy law: 'tis carrion hath no wings.<br /><br />Christopher John Brennan<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/droop-st-thou-and-fail-st-but-these-have-never-tired/
