Nor is that thirst to blame.
Man errs not that he deems
His welfare his true aim:
He errs because he dreams
The world does but exist that welfare to bestow.
We mortals are no kings
For each of whom to sway
A new-made world upsprings,
Meant merely for his play:
No, we are strangers here; the world is from of old.
In vain our pent wills fret,
And would the world subdue.
Limits we did not set
Condition all we do;
Born into life we are, and life must be our mould.
Born into life! man grows
Forth from his parents’ stem,
And blends their bloods, as those
Of theirs are blent in them;
So each new man strikes root into a far fore-time.
Born into life! we bring
A bias with us here,
And, when here, each new thing
Affects us we come near;
To tunes we did not call, our being must keep chime.
Born into life! in vain,
Opinions, those or these,
Unaltered to retain,
The obstinate mind decrees:
Experience, like a sea, soaks all-effacing in.
Born into life! who lists
May what is false hold dear,
And for himself make mists
Through which to see less clear:
The world is what it is, for all our dust and din.
Born into life! ’tis we,
And not the world, are new;
Our cry for bliss, our plea,
Others have urged it too:
Our wants have all been felt, our errors made before.
No eye could be too sound
To observe a world so vast,
No patience too profound
To sort what’s here amassed;
How man may here best live, no care too great to explore.
But we,—as some rude guest
Would change, where’er he roam,
The manners there professed
To those he brings from home,—
We mark not the world’s course, but would have it take ours.