TO
THE PROPHETIC SOUL
What are
these bustlers at the gate
Of now or yesterday,
These playthings in the hand of Fate,
That pass, and point no way;
These clinging
bubbles whose mock fires
5
For ever dance and gleam,
Vain foam that gathers and expires
Upon the world’s dark stream;
These gropers
betwixt right and wrong,
That seek an unknown goal,
10
Most ignorant, when they seem most strong;
What are they, then, O Soul,
That thou
shouldst covet overmuch
A tenderer range of heart,
And yet at every dreamed-of touch
15
So tremulously start?
Thou with
that hatred ever new
Of the world’s base control,
That vision of the large and true,
That quickness of the soul;
20
Nay, for
they are not of thy kind,
But in a rarer clay
God dowered thee with an alien mind;
Thou canst not be as they.
Be strong
therefore; resume thy load,
25
And forward stone by stone
Go singing, though the glorious road
Thou travellest alone.
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