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.