God, though this life is but a wraith,
Although we know not what we use,
Although we grope with little faith,
Give me the heart to fight—and lose.
Ever insurgent let me be,
Make me more daring than devout;
From sleek contentment keep me free.
And fill me with a buoyant doubt.
Open my eyes to visions girt
With beauty, and with wonder lit—
But let me always see the dirt,
And all that spawn and die in it.
Open my ears to music; let
Me thrill with Spring's first flutes and drums—
But never let me dare forget
The bitter ballads of the slums.
From compromise and things half-done,
Keep me, with stern and stubborn pride;
And when, at last, the fight is won
God, keep me still unsatisfied.
TO ARMS!
Who can be dull or wrapped in unconcern
Knowing a world so clamorous and keen;
A world of ardent conflict, honest spleen,
And healthy, hot desires too swift to turn;
Vivid and vulgar—with no heart to learn...
See how that drudge, a thing unkempt, unclean,
Laughs with the royal laughter of a queen.
Even in her the eager fires burn.
Who can be listless in these stirring hours
When, with athletic courage, we engage
To storm, with fierce abandon, sterner powers
And meet indifference with a joyful rage;
Thrilled with a purpose and the dream that towers
Out of this arrogant and blundering age.