A Poet's Epitaph by William Wordsworth

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Art thou a Statist in the van 
Of public conflicts trained and bred? 
--First learn to love one living man; 
'Then' may'st thou think upon the dead. 

A Lawyer art thou?--draw not nigh! 
Go, carry to some fitter place 
The keenness of that practised eye, 
The hardness of that sallow face. 

Art thou a Man of purple cheer? 
A rosy Man, right plump to see? 
Approach; yet, Doctor, not too near, 
This grave no cushion is for thee. 

Or art thou one of gallant pride, 
A Soldier and no man of chaff? 
Welcome!--but lay thy sword aside, 
And lean upon a peasant's staff. 

Physician art thou? one, all eyes, 
Philosopher! a fingering slave, 
One that would peep and botanise 
Upon his mother's grave? 

Wrapt closely in thy sensual fleece, 
O turn aside,--and take, I pray, 
That he below may rest in peace, 
Thy ever-dwindling soul, away! 

A Moralist perchance appears; 
Led, Heaven knows how! to this poor sod: 
And he has neither eyes nor ears; 
Himself his world, and his own God; 

One to whose smooth-rubbed soul can cling 
Nor form, nor feeling, great or small; 
A reasoning, self-sufficing thing, 
An intellectual All-in-all!