Thought

More than the godlike gleams of sculptured stone, More than the golden rhythms the poet weaves, Who knows if a good act unknown, some wound's Balsam, shines not with brighter lasting beams?

Who knows if for some god's unfailing ear, The dogged sin and filthy vice are not A thrice-wise and tempestuous harmony Of melodies sung by Virtue's lips serene?

Bright shine the temples of Fair Art; bright shine The rainbows heavenly of Thought; and bright, The chariots of warriors triumphant! Yet in the temple of the Universe, Can they be costlier than the mute Thought And Glory of the flower, at whose birth The dawn rejoices and whose early death The saddened evening silently laments?

The thoughtful sage high-rising smites the gates Of the Infinite and questions every Sphinx; Yet who knows if the soldier with no will, Obeying blindly, is not nearer Truth?

O struggle vast! Who knows what power measures The measureless and creates the great? Is it the matchless thought of the endowed, Or the dim soul of multitudes that bursts, Thoughtless of reason, into life? Who knows?

The holy man lifts up his hand to bless With readiness; yet who needs more such blessing? Is it the free-born bird that makes its nest Wherever its strong wings would waft it, or The flowery plant bound by a bit of earth?

Which is the light of Truth? Is it the Law That is all eyes or is it some blind love? What leads us there? The hidden path where bent And trembling we seek our way, or the wide road That makes us fly with winged confidence?

O Thought, thou dream-crowned maiden, ever wrestling With a blood-filled, swift woman masculine, Whose bosom, thine or hers, is doomed to yield The destined milk to nourish and to heal Our sickened life with health Olympian?

O Thought, thou angel, ever wrestling on With a strong giant flinging his hundred hands About thy neck to strangle thee, wilt thou Battle with sword or lily? Oh, the world Will crumble ere thy struggle finds an end!