Thursday, December 31, 2015
A Little Breed
Alfred Tennyson (1809-1892), "Maud," part I, lines 126-131:
Newer› ‹Older
We are puppets, Man in his pride, and Beauty fair in her flower;
Do we move ourselves, or are we moved by an unseen hand at a game
That pushes us off from the board, and others ever succeed?
Ah yet, we cannot be kind to each other here for an hour;
We whisper, and hint, and chuckle, and grin at a brother's shame; 130
However we brave it out, we men are a little breed.
