Unasking have we come,--too late, too soon
Unasking from this plot of earth are sent.
But we, the sons of noble discontent,
Use half our lives in asking for the moon.

("We all sorely complain," says Seneca, "of the shortness of
time, and yet have much more than we know what to do with. Our
lives are either spent in doing nothing at all or in doing
nothing to the purpose, or in doing nothing that we ought to do.
We are always complaining that our days are few, and acting as
though there would be no end of them.")

So then your hand has guarded me! Be blessed,
And, if you like such reading, read, I pray,
Through Moses' book, or credit them who say
That old Isaiah's hand is far the best.

Some day, some day the potter shall return
Into the dust. O potter, will you make
An earth which I would not refuse to take,
Or such unpleasant earth as you would spurn?

Then out of that--men swear with godly skill--
Perchance another potter may devise
Another pot, a piece of merchandise
Which they can love and break, if so they will.

And from a resting-place you may be hurled
And from a score of countries may be thrust--
Poor brother, you the freeman of the dust,