And all that lies beneath.
But if to be a “Bard Sublime?”—
A prater,
Aspiring to soar ’midst lofty peaks on painted scenes; to catch with musty mystery; with empty schemes of praise; with sheens of artificial light, spread o’er this prolonged night and sleep of letters; or with palsied moonbeams that miniature the day and blight tart speech and full-ripe reason;
To buoy vanity;
To bid for foolish charlatan’s esteem,
To live apart at ease and shirk,
Good hard holy healthy work;
To mingle not with clean magnetic dirt,
With healing, building sunshine, air and rain.—