Poem by Alexander Smith

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I cannot deem why men toil so for Fame.
A porter is a porter though his load
Be the oceaned world, and although his road
Be down the ages. What is in a name?
Ah! 'tis our spirit's curse to strive and seek.
Although its heart is rich in pearls and ores,
The Sea complains upon a thousand shores;
Sea-like we moan for ever. We are weak.
We ever hunger for diviner stores.
I cannot say I have a thirsting deep
For human fame, nor is my spirit bowed
To be a mummy above ground to keep
For stare and handling of the vulgar crowd,
Defrauded of my natural rest and sleep.

1. There Have Been Vast Displays of Critic Wit
2. Beauty Still Walketh on the Earth and Air
3. Joy Like a Stream Flows Through the Christmas-Streets
4. Blaavin
5. Inversnaid

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