Literary Squabbles

by Alfred Lord Tennyson

　　

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Ah God! the petty fools of rhyme That shriek and sweat in pigmy wars Before the stony face of Time, And look’d at by the silent stars; Who hate each other for a song, And do their little best to bite And pinch their brethren in the throng, And scratch the very dead for spite; And strain to make an inch of room For their sweet selves, and cannot hear The sullen Lethe rolling doom On them and theirs and all things here; When one small touch of Charity Could lift them nearer Godlike state Than if the crowded Orb should cry Like those who cried Diana great. And I too talk, and lose the touch I talk of. Surely, after all, The noblest answer unto such Is perfect stillness when they brawl.

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