Among the Millet

by Archibald Lampman




Not to be conquered by these headlong days,
    But to stand free: to keep the mind at brood
    On life’s deep meaning, nature’s altitude
On loveliness, and time’s mysterious ways;
At every thought and deed to clear the haze                                5
    Out of our eyes, considering only this,
    What man, what life, what love, what beauty is,
This is to live, and win the final praise.

Though strife, ill fortune and harsh human need
    Beat down the soul, at moments blind and dumb                   10
    With agony; yet, patience—there shall come
       Many great voices from life’s outer sea,
Hours of strange triumph, and, when few men heed,
       Murmurs and glimpses of eternity.