Classic Poem

XI

All that I am to Earth belongs:
This Heaven does me violent wrongs.
My fight from fitful loins, my birth,
Are fashioned to the mode of Earth —
Deliberate things, not swiftly given
As some report it falls in Heaven.
This mind is slow to work, this will,
This hand to act them tardier still —
Not dowered with that immediate sense
Deemed in celestial excellence.
True Earth am I, of Earth I'm knit —
O, let me be at peace with it.