A wasteful life is more to fear than death…

A wasteful life is more to fear than death,

As sanguinary jihad dyes the field and depredates all earth;

Yet be our chief ruin this: that we’ve power to think,

But want in will to act; wherefore we sink:

That I who earmark to survive infinity

Turn my Soul in books and acts, to unfrieght me:

Whereafter, being gone, to me is trifle,

Still to them left behind, most wonderful:

‘Tis not controversy hoists Greatness high ‘bove sight,

But Greatness’ contumely that he be so hight!


O how that all mine inditures are flow toward thee,

And rites undertook that thou enpatron me;

For in thee’s bound more content than’s in sea or land,

And sparks of divine fire ‘cross the air

Dost thou in all thy majesty simply endear,

Wherefore the world a fool’s medal round my neck doth engarland,

Protesting my favours too high, thine election flaw’d;

Base thing I, thou maelstrom of all fairs which hath them maw’d!

But courage’s to know what’s not to fear, wisdom what:

That dare I all now I might with all my might, or rot!


Mark ye me, like travelers their way by darkness strucken:

So strange wars be won, strange gallantry be proven!


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By Sydney Chesterfield on May 5, 2016 · Posted in Braindrops On Yellow Leaves, Literary, Poetry

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