Te throw your crumbs of bread into the stream,
And there are fish that rise and swallow them;
Fish too there are that lie along the mud,
And never rise, content to feed on worms.
Thus do we poets; thus the people do.
What sparkles is caught up; what sparkles not
Falls to the bottom mingled with the sludge,
And perishes by its solidity.
The minnows twinkle round and let it pass,
Pursuing some minuter particle,
More practicable for the slender gill.