Art Thou A Statist In The Van Of Public Conflicts Trained And Bred? First Learn To Love One Living Man; 'Then' May'St Thou Think Upon The Dead. A Lawyer Art Thou? Draw Not Nigh! Go, Carry To Some Fitter Place The Keenness Of That Practised Eye, The Hardness Of That Sallow Face. Art Thou A Man Of Purple Cheer? A Rosy Man, Right Plump To See? Approach; Yet, Doctor, Not Too Near, This Grave No Cushion Is For Thee. Or Art Thou One Of Gallant Pride, A Soldier And No Man Of Chaff? Welcome! But Lay Thy Sword Aside, And Lean Upon A Peasant'S Staff. Physician Art Thou? One, All Eyes, Philosopher! A Fingering Slave, One That Would Peep And Botanise Upon His Mother'S Grave? Wrapt Closely In Thy Sensual Fleece, O Turn Aside,'And Take, I Pray, That He Below May Rest In Peace, Thy Ever-Dwindling Soul, Away! A Moralist Perchance Appears; Led, Heaven Knows How! To This Poor Sod: And He Has Neither Eyes Nor Ears; Himself His World, And His Own God; One To Whose Smooth-Rubbed Soul Can Cling Nor Form, Nor Feeling, Great Or Small; A Reasoning, Self-Sufficing Thing, An Intellectual All-In-All! Shut Close The Door; Press Down The Latch; Sleep In Thy Intellectual Crust; Nor Lose Ten Tickings Of Thy Watch Near This Unprofitable Dust. But Who Is He, With Modest Looks, And Clad In Homely Russet Brown? He Murmurs Near The Running Brooks A Music Sweeter Than Their Own. He Is Retired As Noontide Dew, Or Fountain In A Noon-Day Grove; And You Must Love Him, Ere To You He Will Seem Worthy Of Your Love. The Outward Shows Of Sky And Earth, Of Hill And Valley, He Has Viewed; And Impulses Of Deeper Birth Have Come To Him In Solitude. In Common Things That Round Us Lie Some Random Truths He Can Impart, The Harvest Of A Quiet Eye That Broods And Sleeps On His Own Heart. But He Is Weak; Both Man And Boy, Hath Been An Idler In The Land; Contented If He Might Enjoy The Things Which Others Understand. Come Hither In Thy Hour Of Strength; Come, Weak As Is A Breaking Wave! Here Stretch Thy Body At Full Length; Or Build Thy House Upon This Grave.