  I am in the Expectancy that runs: My feet are in the Future, whirled afar On wings of light. If I have any sons, Let them arise and follow to my star. Some momentary touches of my fire Have warmed the barren ages with a beam: There is no peak beyond my swift desire, There is no beauty deeper than my dream. I make an end of life’s stupendous jest— The merry waste of fortunes by the Few, While the thin faces of the poor are pressed Against the panes—a hungry whirlwind crew. I come to lift the soul-destroying weight, To heal the hurt, to end the foolish loss, To take the toiler from his brutal fate— The toiler hanging on the Labor Cross. That men may nestle on her warm, still breast; I bring to wronged, humiliated men The sacred right to labor and to rest. I bring to men the fine ideal stuff The young gods took to build the spheres of old: The fire I send on men is great enough To burn the iron kingdoms into gold. I hold the way until the bright heavens bend— Until the New Republic shall arise, And quick young deities again descend, Bringing the gifts of God with joyous cries. I lead the Graces and the WingÈd Powers: The world the Anarchs build I will destroy, For I will storm upon its demon towers, With wind of laughter and with rain of joy. A hush will fall upon the foolish strife, As though a joyous god, serene and strong, Shined suddenly before the steps of life. Cold hearts that falter are my only bar: Heroes that seek my ever-fading goal Must take their reckoning from the central star, And follow the equator: I am Soul. My love is higher than heavens where Taurus wheels, My love is deeper than the pillared skies: High as that peak in Heaven where Milton kneels, Deep as that grave in Hell where CÆsar lies. Still hope for man: my star is on the way! Great Hugo saw it from his prison isle; It lit the mighty dream of Lamennais; It led the ocean thunders of Carlyle. Wise Lincoln knelt before my hidden flame: It was from me they drew their sacred fire— I am Religion by her deeper name.
|
|
