Ii. The Thinker

But lo, the thinker, whatever is his soul, Whatever race has given him his blood, Watches from his unruffled haunts calm-wrapped And he stirs not.

With pity's quivering and terror's chill, In tears and ruins, he plucks a fruitful joy From the great Drama, watching thoughtfully The hidden law.

And lo, the thinker, whatever is his soul, Whatever race has given him his blood, Abides in his unruffled haunts calm-wrapped And meditates:

Old age? No! Nor the youth of a new life. All is the same, Europe and Law, the shark! And never changes--hear ye not?--the march Of history.

A splinter in the powerful's hands, O powerless, Yet sometimes--comfort thee--his mate and friend! The powerful's blind hand even thou, O Science, Often shalt be.

Is War the Father of all things? And is The lava messenger of lusty growth? How can the creature grow from monster seed? Who knows? Pass on!

Even if some great dream be born of flesh And the wroth tempest fling a new world forth, Even if over the tumult Europe stand United, one;

And if the state of a new people rise Founded upon the ruins of the world, Still always thou wilt burn, O Fury's torch, Amid the darkness.

Even if thou wilt come to states in ruins And empty thrones, O power of juster race, Always the tender and the harsh shall be; Shepherd and flocks!

Unless, O man, something is destined thee That thou, O History, foretellest not: An evolution unbelievable To gazing worlds.