Many there are in the world who know,
And a little on everything say:—
Is this attractive? should that be so?—
They answer you, yea or nay.
On hearing them talk, you might think aside
That theirs, for sure, was the coveted bride.

But anon from the world they disappear;
Their life was an empty shell.
He who strives after a great career,
Burns to do something well,
The best of his powers with all their weight
On the smallest details must concentrate.

The tree may grow till it weathers the gale,
The branches may shelter the field,
The leaves may voluptuous odours exhale,
But the fruit they can none of them yield:
The seed alone in its tiny space
Contains the trees which the forest grace.