Lxxix

Man? Ah, would you prove what power Marks man,--what fruit his tree may yield, beyond the sour And stinted crab, he calls love-apple, which remains After you toil and moil your utmost,--all, love gains By lavishing manure?--try quite the other plan! And, to obtain the strong true product of a man, Set him to hate a little! Leave cherishing his root, And rather prune his branch, nip off the pettiest shoot Superfluous on his bough! I promise, you shall learn By what grace came the goat, of all beasts else, to earn Such favor with the god o' the grape: 't was only he Who, browsing on its tops, first stung fertility Into the stock's heart, stayed much growth of tendril-twine, Some faintish flower, perhaps, but gained the indignant wine, Wrath of the red press! Catch the puniest of the kind-- Man-animalcule, starved body, stunted mind, And, as you nip the blotch 'twixt thumb and finger-nail, Admire how heaven above and earth below avail No jot to soothe the mite, sore at God's prime offence In making mites at all,--coax from its impotence One virile drop of thought, or word, or deed, by strain To propagate for once--which nature rendered vain, Who lets first failure stay, yet cares not to record Mistake that seems to cast opprobrium on the Lord! Such were the gain from love's best pains! But let the elf Be touched with hate, because some real man bears himself Manlike in body and soul, and, since he lives, must thwart And furify and set a-fizz this counterpart O' the pismire that 's surprised to effervescence, if, By chance, black bottle come in contact with chalk cliff, Acid with alkali! Then thrice the bulk, out blows Our insect, does its kind, and cuckoo-spits some rose!