I

These stones that idly make An idle land and lie, Fantastic forms, or break Down crumbling hills not high

In arid cataracts Where meagre cattle stray To search the meagre tracts Of bitter grass: for aye

They move not, live not, lie Dull eyes that watch the world, And exiles asking why God brought them here or hurl’d.

We would we could have torn This winding web of fate Which round us barely born Hath bought us to this state

Of being cast away Among these tombs. The river Of life here day by day Runs downward slower ever

Into black washes. True Yet holds our destiny— To live a year or two, Look round us once and die.

If we should try to trace In portions, line by line, The beauty of a face To know why thus divine,

Seeing but many curves, We miss the inner soul And find no part deserves That merit of the whole.

And so to analyse Thy mournful spirit vain, O Exile; but our sighs Suffice to prove the pain.

To grow from much to more In knowledge, and to put A power to every power, A foot before a foot,

Toward that goal of good That glimmers thro’ the night Above the time and mood, A star of constant light;

At last to meet the dark, The goal not reach’d indeed, But full of hours and work, Are, Exile, not thy creed.

And less to leap to catch The spinning spokes of change; In our brief life to snatch All aspects and to range

Full-face with every view; To sit with those who toil, Great spirits, toiling too; Still less to fan or foil

Those fires that, rushing fast Thro’ all the people’s life, Break roaring round the past In renovating strife.

If in the energic West Man ever grows more large, Like ocean without rest Exploring at the marge,

Here lower yet he turns For ever downward thrust— The baleful Sun-God burns And breaks him into dust;

Or like his native plains Where nothing new appears, Or hath appeared, remains Unchanged a thousand years.