Classic Poem

When I consider man, how he is weak,
Yet how he makes a song of his despair,
And admirably is curious to seek
Whatever's flung for him upon the air,
Whatever fluff is blown by for his play,
By destinies or gods,—his praise is due them,—
I think those powers must, looking on him, say,
“He's wrong in theories, but he's faithful to them.”

Let's have the valor of a pet that's tamed
By many a blow—let's be no less forgiving;
Nor by an Airedale's amber eyes be shamed,
Nor loudly bay the moon because we're living—
Or would we go aloof? Why, as for that,
I have learned wisdom of a tabby-cat.