  decorative A LONG-LEGGED gnat with airy wings, a dart Sharp as a needle and a searching tusk, Was flutt'ring round my lamp, clung to my book-shelf, And wandered over papers. Then I blew On it, to chase it far away. But no, Beneath the tempest of my breath it clung Still faster to the paper's slender shelter And moved not, till I thought my breath had killed it. I thought how Fate and we thus ofttimes watch Each other, till Fate blow us into atoms, And we remain in some weak place, in Death's Suspense, not knowing if again the storm Will blow. But Fate is careless and will let Us go, if but the wings that are to take Us hence are still untorn, unsinged, uncrushed; Or else we creep along and die unseen, A wingless worm, not understanding what Those papers and those shelves contain that are No revelation, nought but a grave, whilst others Suck life and food, from where the storm of Fate Hath torn us, unresisting, meaningless, And watching with an instant's careless glance, If we are really dead, or still may fly. Flutter not; then unfold thy wings, and go Thy way, the coming morn is full of life, Bury thy head in flowers, in the dew, The sun is rising and thou art alive! |
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