Previous: “HOW MANY POOR!”
THE DEAD LEVEL.
There is a fear among us as we strive, As we succeed or fail, or starve or revel, That there will be no pleasure left alive When we in peace and joy at last arrive At one dead level. And still the strangest part of this strange fear Is that it is not for ourselves we fear it. We wish to rise and gain; we look ahead To pleasant years of peace ere we are dead; We wish that peace, but wish no other near it! Say, does it spoil your pleasure in a town To have your neighbors’ gardens full of roses? Is your house dearer when its eye looks down On evil-smelling shanties rough and brown? Is your nose safer than your neighbor’s nose is? Are you unhappy at some noble fête To see the whole bright throng in radiant dresses? Is your State safer when each other State That borders it is full of want and hate? Peace must be peace to all before it blesses. Is knowledge sweeter when it is hemmed in By ignorance that does not know its master? Is goodness easier when plenteous sin Surrounds it? And can you not win Joy for yourself without your friend’s disaster? O foolish children! With more foolish fear, Unworthy even of a well-trained devil! Good things are good for all men,—that is clear; To doubt it shows your heads are nowhere near To that much-dreaded level!
Previous: “HOW MANY POOR!”