XII
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They strive; they strive, heap luxury on bliss, And worship Pleasure as their goddess-queen. Ah, take who will the subtle harlot's kiss! Yes, seize thy moment's sweetness—then, I ween, A pageantry of pain, such throbbing throes As rive the soul, and cut the quick with keen, Imprisoned edges till the life-blood flows. Man little knows it; but two aims has he: By present anguish, store up future woes, By present anguish, pain posterity. The quest for pleasure is a quest in vain; Pleasure is Nothing in Eternity. Men rather act than think, for thought is pain, And action is the opiate of the brain. |
XIII
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Shall I play Roman, face and fight these ills, Pretend that I can fight and still may win? A child his dozen mimic soldiers drills, And six with six, the battle they begin. Some victors, and some vanquished; some he slays— But then the soldiers are mere toys of tin— And carelessly upon the ground, he lays Vanquished and victors on one common plane; And takes some other toy and laughs and plays— Yes, like that soldier, may I fight, and gain Great victories. Oh, I may stare my Fate Between the eyes, and drink whole draughts of pain; With Stoic-strength, may struggle, and may hate; But where's the payment that I vainly wait? |
XIV
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I dare not ponder on humanity; Myself, I dare not ponder, nor my goal. Oh, would that I were lost upon that sea Into whose silence, Lethe's currents roll. Upon its bosom, would that I pressed mine, Then might some kindly power transform this soul Into forgetfulness. Or would some wine Were brewed with musk or attar of the rose And colored with a tint incarnadine, And so compounded that a dreamless doze Would come from one red, richly-scented draught. Or would that some unmoving glacier froze My soul within its crystal mine.—No craft Can save me from this cup of pain unquaffed. |