Classic Poem

EACH Philosophy
Is centered in the being of the Sage —
Or Fool, mayhap — terms are indifferent.
A general error oft is private truth;
What's falsehood here, is there veracity;
The right hand's nothing is the left hand's all!
For natures as they limit, or expand,
Determine faith or doubt, — ourselves the bound
To our own fate. That Caterpillar's bliss
Is in luxuriant idleness to crawl
O'er the sweet leaves of roses, wondering
Why yonder Bee should wear his wings with toil
Touring from flower to flower. Perchance the Bee
Much marvels that the Ringdove builds her nest
So high, that garden odours, and the scent
Of thyme-banks reach it not. That very Dove
Hath never solved the charm the Martlet finds
In eaves of human dwellings; unto him
'Tis mystery why the kingly Eagle dwells
On the rock's lonely peak. We but record
Ourselves in what we call our destiny,
As full tides flood and neap tides show the sand.