Nature and art combine to clothe his form,
To feed his fancy and to fill his maw;
And yet the more they give the more he craves.
Give him the gold of Ophir, still he delves;
Give him the land, and he demands the sea;
Give him the earth--he reaches for the stars.
Doomed by his fate to scorn the good he has
And grasp at fancied good beyond his reach,
He seeks for silver in the distant hills
While in the sand gold glitters at his feet.
O man, thy wisdom is but folly still;
Wiser the brute and full of sweet content.
The wit and wisdom of five thousand years--What
are they but the husks we feed upon,
While beast and bird devour the golden grain?
Lo for the brutes dame Nature sows and tills;
For them the Tuba-tree of Paradise
Bends with its bounties free and manifold;
For them the fabled fountain Salsabil,
Gushes pure wine that sparkles as it runs,
And fair Al Cawthar flows with creamy milk.
But man, forever doomed to toil and sweat,
Digs the hard earth and casts his seeds therein,
And hopes the harvest;--how oft he hopes in vain!
Weeds choke, winds blast, and myriad pests devour,
The hot sun withers and the floods destroy.
Unceasing labor, vigilance and care
Reward him here and there with bounteous store.
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