  What can it profit a man tho' he have the soul of a god Sunk in the form of a beast, with a senseless simian face— What can the world perceive of the subtler inward grace Breathing upon the dust of the coarse clay clod? What knows the world of me—the Me that is prisoned within— Seeing only the self that sickens its sensitive eyes— How can it know that this hateful mask hides not the sneer of Sin, That this cloak of crass, crude flesh, is a trusty soul's disguise? What can I hope to win? Which of the gifts men prize? What can I have or hold of the bounteous boon I crave— The low-browed leer of the brutal, base-born slave? What can I know of Love? I, with my ape-like face, Frighting the tender trust of the timorous, shrinking maid, Who, drawn by my deep soul's spell, half-yields to the soul's embrace Then looks on its hideous mask and trembles and flees dismayed. Yet must the soul of fire chained to this cursed clay, Galled by its fetters of flesh, seared with a thousand scars, Shriek and struggle and beat its breast on its prison bars Thro' the night's long dark of despair till the dawning of ultimate day, Till the glow of that ultimate dawn transfigure the tortured face And the sacred fire within crumble the coarse clay clod. Stripped of its bonds of flesh, stand face to face with its God! |
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