When Art goes bounding, lean, <br />Up hill-tops fired green <br />To pluck a rose for life. <br /> <br />Life like a broody hen <br />Cluck-clucks him back again. <br /> <br />But when Art, imbecile, <br />Sits old and chill <br />On sidings shaven clean, <br />And counts his clustering <br />Dead daisies on a string <br />With witless laughter…. <br /> <br />Then like a new Jill <br />Toiling up a hill <br />Life scrambles after.<br /><br />Lola Ridge<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/art-and-life-2/
