“‘Poor fragments of a broken world,
Whereon men pitch their tent!
Why were ye too to death not hurled
When your world’s day was spent?
“‘That glow of central fire is done
Which with its fusing flame
Knit all your parts, and kept you one;
But ye, ye are the same!
“‘The past, its mask of union on,
Had ceased to live and thrive:
The past, its mask of union gone,
Say, is it more alive?
“‘Your creeds are dead, your rites are dead,
Your social order too.
Where tarries he, the Power who said,—
See, I make all things new?
“‘The millions suffer still, and grieve.
And what can helpers heal
With old-world cures men half believe
For woes they wholly feel?
“‘And yet men have such need of joy!
But joy whose grounds are true,
And joy that should all hearts employ
As when the past was new.
“‘Ah! not the emotion of that past,
Its common hope, were vain!
Some new such hope must dawn at last,
Or man must toss in pain.
“‘But now the old is out of date,
The new is not yet born.
And who can be alone elate,
While the world lies forlorn?’
“Then to the wilderness I fled.
There among Alpine snows
And pastoral huts I hid my head,
And sought and found repose.
“It was not yet the appointed hour.
Sad, patient, and resigned,
I watched the crocus fade and flower,
I felt the sun and wind.