Iii

I think God made your soul for better things Than idly laughing with the noisy crew. I think He meant the spirit that is you To soar above the world with silver wings; To hear the music of celestial strings; To keep the flame within you always true Unto your own high pole; and pure as dew The fountain that within you sometimes sings.

I think you are an exile in the noise Of busy markets; alien to the toys That dazzle others, firing them with greed; And, like a seagull, lost upon the land, You long for the large breakers and the sand, The strong salt air, the surf, the drifting weed.