THE FAULT OF THE AGE.
BY ELLA WHEELER WILCOX.
The fault of the age is a mad endeavor
To leap to heights that were made to climb;
By a burst of strength or a thought that is clever
We plan to outwit and forestall Time.
We scorn to wait for the thing worth having;
We want high noon at the day's dim dawn,
We find no pleasure in toiling and saving
As our forefathers did in the good times gone.
We force our roses before their season
To bloom and blossom that we may wear;
And then we wonder and ask the reason
Why perfect buds are so few and rare.
We crave the gain, but despise the getting;
We want wealth, not as reward, but dower;
And the strength that is wasted in useless fretting
Would fell a forest or build a tower.
To covet the prize, yet to shrink from the winning;
To thirst for glory, yet fear the fight—
Why, what can it lead to at last but sinning,
To mental languor and moral blight?
Better the old slow way of striving
And counting small gains when the year is done,
Than to use our forces all in contriving
And to grasp for pleasures we have not won.