To strengthen the young soul in toil and pain,
Till our age-aching hands no longer hold you!
Vision far-dreamed! But soft! If your last goal
Be low, if you are only common clay,
What then? Toil lost? Were our toil trebled, nay!
You are a soul, you are a human soul,
A greater than the skies ten-trillion starred—
Shakespeare no greater, O you slip of God!
(Text.)—Cosmopolitan.
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