When, at God's fiat, Light flashed forth, the beam

Evolved a million pigments, as it sped

To every nature. Now, of all its spread,

What shaft so glorious as the poet's dream

Which, mote and mass, reflects the Will Supreme

That life is progress, and by flight, or tread,

It circles God-ward up, till perfected!

For, harboring meaner thought were to blaspheme.

What, if the world be chaos where it sins,

Race feuds, Creed hatreds, falsehoods gross, deceit,

Intrigue and greed, form swirling, blinding sleet?

Honor and Truth, though buried to their chins,

Look up and smile; for, though the storms still beat,

The poets show 'tis Spring, not Winter, wins.