Humanity.
Reading edition
The big-eyed baby, just across the way,
Longs for the moon, and reaches out to clasp it:
He lunges at the crescent, cold and gray,
And waxes wroth to find he cannot grasp it.
Be hushed, O babe! and give thy grief a rest.
Better, a thousand times, for thee to ponder
Upon the lacteal wealth of mother’s breast,
Than reach for that vain milky way up yonder.
Yet am I like this man of recent birth
That lets a foolish disappointment fret it—
Scorning the sky, I’m reaching for the earth,
And grunt and groan because I do not get it.
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