Rich labour is the struggle to be wise, <br />While we make sure the struggle cannot cease. <br />Else better were it in some bower of peace <br />Slothful to swing, contending with the flies. <br />You point at Wisdom fixed on lofty skies, <br />As mid barbarian hordes a sculptured Greece: <br />She falls. To live and shine, she grows her fleece, <br />Is shorn, and rubs with follies and with lies. <br />So following her, your hewing may attain <br />The right to speak unto the mute, and shun <br />That sly temptation of the illumined brain, <br />Deliveries oracular, self-spun. <br />Who sweats not with the flock will seek in vain <br />To shed the words which are ripe fruit of sun.<br /><br />George Meredith<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-discipline-of-wisdom/
