The Dead Level
There is a fear among us as we strive,
As we succeed or fail, or starve or revel,
That there will be no pleasure left alive
When we in peace and joy at last arrive
At one dead level.
And still the strangest part of this strange fear
Is that it is not for ourselves we fear it.
We wish to rise and gain; we look ahead
To pleasant years of peace ere we are dead;
We wish that peace, but wish no other near it!
Say, does it spoil your pleasure in a town
To have your neighbors’ gardens full of roses?
Is your house dearer when its eye looks down
On evil-smelling shanties rough and brown?
Is your nose safer than your neighbor’s nose is?
Are you unhappy at some noble fête
To see the whole bright throng in radiant dresses?
Is your State safer when each other State
That borders it is full of want and hate?
Peace must be peace to all before it blesses.
Is knowledge sweeter when it is hemmed in
By ignorance that does not know its master?
Is goodness easier when plenteous sin
Surrounds it? And can you not win
Joy for yourself without your friend’s disaster?
O foolish children! With more foolish fear,
Unworthy even of a well-trained devil!
Good things are good for all men,—that is clear;
To doubt it shows your heads are nowhere near
To that much-dreaded level!