That great, goalless, measureless race-course sublime?
In which relays of runners must keep up the race?
There's nothing "conclusive" in limitless space;
And "binding" man's soul to his best of to-day
For the future of growth, in an absolute way,
Were folly as futile as binding an oak
To the seedling's first prop, or the sapling's first yoke;
For provisional law, not for secular life,
Such phrases are fit. Yet to heal age-long strife
By the very best "betterment" now in our ken,