A Type
I am too little, said the Wretch,
For any one to see.
Among the million men who do
This thing that I am doing too,
Why should they notice me?
My sin is common as to breathe;
It rests on every back.
And surely I am not to blame
Where everybody does the same,—
Am not a bit more black!
And so he took his willing share
In a universal crime,
Thinking that no reproach could fall
On one who shared the fault of all,
Who did it all the time.
Then Genius came, and showed the world
What thing it was they did;
How their offence had reached the poles
With stench of slain unburied souls,
And all men cowered and hid.
Then Genius took that one poor Wretch
For now the time was ripe;
Stripped him of every shield and blind,
And nailed him up for all mankind
To study—as a type!