Rub thou thy battered lamp: nor claim nor beg <br />Honours from aught about thee. Light the young. <br />Thy frame is as a dusty mantle hung, <br />O grey one! pendant on a loosened peg. <br />Thou art for this our life an ancient egg, <br />Or a tough bird: thou hast a rudderless tongue, <br />Turning dead trifles, like the cock of dung, <br />Which runs, Time's contrast to thy halting leg. <br />Nature, it is most sure, not thee admires. <br />But hast thou in thy season set her fires <br />To burn from Self to Spirit through the lash, <br />Honoured the sons of Earth shall hold thee high: <br />Yea, to spread light when thy proud letter I <br />Drops prone and void as any thoughtless dash.<br /><br />George Meredith<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-state-of-age/
