This blog contains a collection of renowned and young authors from around the world poems in the languages in which they were originally written. Each file includes author’s photo or portrait and brief biography. We offer news and announcements of interest to professional and amateur writers (writing competitions, poetry press, etc) too.


Este blog recoge una selección de poemas de reputados autores y jóvenes promesas de todo el mundo en las lenguas en las que fueron escritos originalmente. Se incluye en cada ficha una breve reseña biográfica del autor y fotos o cuadros de éste. Se complementa el grueso del material con datos de interés para escritores profesionales o aficionados a la literatura (como información sobre certámenes literarios, editoriales dedicadas a la poesía, etc).

Isaac Watts



False Great­ness

Mylo, for­bear to call him blest
That only boasts a large estate,
Should all the trea­sures of the west
Meet, and con­spire to make him great
I know thy bet­ter thoughts, I know
Thy rea­son can’t descend so low.
Let a broad stream, with golden sands,
Through all his mead­ows roll,
He’s but a wretch, with all his lands,
That wears a nar­row soul.

He swells amidst his wealthy store,
And proudly poiz­ing what he weighs,
In his own scale he fondly lays
Huge heaps of shin­ing ore.

He spreads the bal­ance wide to hold
His manors and his farms,
And cheat the beams with loads of gold
He hugs between his arms.
So might the pough-boy climb a tree,

When Croe­sus mounts his throne,
And both stand up, and smile to see
How long their shadow’s grown.
Alas! how vain their fan­cies be
To think that shape their own!

Thus min­gled still with wealth and state,
Croe­sus him­self can never know;
His true dimen­sions and his weight
Are far infe­rior to their show.
Were I so tall to reach the pole,
Or grasp the ocean with my span,
I must be measur’d by my soul:
The mind’s the stan­dard of the man.

False Great­ness, by Isaac Watts

Mylo, for­bear to call him blest
That only boasts a large estate,
Should all the trea­sures of the west
Meet, and con­spire to make him great
I know thy bet­ter thoughts, I know

Thy rea­son can’t descend so low.
Let a broad stream, with golden sands,
Through all his mead­ows roll,
He’s but a wretch, with all his lands,
That wears a nar­row soul.

He swells amidst his wealthy store,
And proudly poiz­ing what he weighs,
In his own scale he fondly lays
Huge heaps of shin­ing ore.
He spreads the bal­ance wide to hold
His manors and his farms,
And cheat the beams with loads of gold
He hugs between his arms.
So might the pough-boy climb a tree,
When Croe­sus mounts his throne,
And both stand up, and smile to see
How long their shadow’s grown.
Alas! how vain their fan­cies be
To think that shape their own!

Thus min­gled still with wealth and state,
Croe­sus him­self can never know;
His true dimen­sions and his weight
Are far infe­rior to their show.
Were I so tall to reach the pole,
Or grasp the ocean with my span,
I must be measur’d by my soul:
The mind’s the stan­dard of the man.


Isaac Watts (Southampton, Inglaterra, 1674 – Abney Park, Stoke Newington, 1748). Poeta, predicador, teólogo y pedagogo.

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"Poetic Souls " es un blog sin ánimo de lucro cuyo único fin consiste en rendir justo homenaje
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