TO THE PROPHETIC SOUL

What are these bustlers at the gate Of now or yesterday, These playthings in the hand of Fate, That pass, and point no way;

These clinging bubbles whose mock fires For ever dance and gleam, Vain foam that gathers and expires Upon the world's dark stream;

These gropers betwixt right and wrong, That seek an unknown goal, Most ignorant, when they seem most strong; What are they, then, O Soul,

That thou shouldst covet overmuch A tenderer range of heart, And yet at every dreamed-of touch So tremulously start?

Thou with that hatred ever new Of the world's base control, That vision of the large and true, That quickness of the soul;

Nay, for they are not of thy kind, But in a rarer clay God dowered thee with an alien mind; Thou canst not be as they.

Be strong therefore; resume thy load, And forward stone by stone Go singing, though the glorious road Thou travellest alone.