  In the heart of a man Is a thought upfurled, Reached its full span It shakes the world, And to one high thought Is a whole race wrought. Not with vain noise The great work grows, Nor with foolish voice, But in repose,— Not in the rush But in the hush. From the cogent lash Of the cloud-herd wind The low clouds dash, Blown headlong, blind; But beyond, the great blue Looks moveless through. O’er the loud world sweep The scourge and the rod; But in deep beyond deep Is the stillness of God;— At the Fountains of Life No cry, no strife. |
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