Ii

O God, our Father, God!-- Who gav'st us fire, To soar beyond the sod, To rise, aspire-- What though we strive and strive, And all our soul says 'live'? The empty scorn of men Will sneer it down again. And, O sun-centred high, Who, too, art Poet, Beneath Thy tender sky Each day new Keatses die, Calling all life a lie; Can this be so--and why?-- And canst Thou know it?