Wise men in their bad hours have enviedThe little people making merry like grasshoppersIn spots of sunlight, hardly thinkingBackward but never forward, and if they somehowTake hold upon the future they do itHalf asleep, with the tools of generationFoolishly reduplicatingFolly in thirty-year periods; the eat and laugh too,Groan against labors, wars and partings,Dance, talk, dress and undress; wise men have pretendedThe summer insects enviable;One must indulge the wise in moments of mockery.Strength and desire possess the future,The breed of the grasshopper shrills, "What does the futureMatter, we shall be dead?" Ah, grasshoppers,Death's a fierce meadowlark: but to die having madeSomething more equal to the centuriesThan muscle and bone, is mostly to shed weakness.The mountains are dead stone, the peopleAdmire or hate their stature, their insolent quietness,The mountains are not softened nor troubledAnd a few dead men's thoughts have the same temper.
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