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Literary Squabbles

         
      Ah God! the petty fools of rhyme
          That shriek and sweat in pigmy wars
      Before the stony face of Time,
          And look’d at by the silent stars;

      Who hate each other for a song,
          And do their little best to bite
      And pinch their brethren in the throng,
          And scratch the very dead for spite;

      And strain to make an inch of room
          For their sweet selves, and cannot hear
      The sullen Lethe rolling doom
          On them and theirs and all things here;

      When one small touch of Charity
          Could lift them nearer Godlike state
      Than if the crowded Orb should cry
          Like those who cried Diana great.

      And I too talk, and lose the touch
          I talk of. Surely, after all,
      The noblest answer unto such
          Is perfect stillness when they brawl.
       


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