Ideals

Men with their thoughts are honestly taken
Do no trees try for ever and forever after
One tree, cell by cell, and tree by tree?

Pity the old man who is terribly shaped
The blight of boys with a skill to master
Take pride in the barks rough exterior

How cunning each crop of men has gardened
Itself for lush or lean, upon a single meaning
Once thought to be obscure or noxious

Stoic Poetry

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