Читать книгу Poems. Volume 2 - George Meredith - Страница 11

Rich labour is the struggle to be wise,

While we make sure the struggle cannot cease.

Else better were it in some bower of peace

Slothful to swing, contending with the flies.

You point at Wisdom fixed on lofty skies,

As mid barbarian hordes a sculptured Greece:

She falls.  To live and shine, she grows her fleece,

Is shorn, and rubs with follies and with lies.

So following her, your hewing may attain

The right to speak unto the mute, and shun

That sly temptation of the illumined brain,

Deliveries oracular, self-spun.

Who sweats not with the flock will seek in vain

To shed the words which are ripe fruit of sun.