The poem of the Universe
Nor rhythm has, nor rhyme;
Some god recites the wondrous song,
A stanza at a time.
Great deeds he is foredoomed to do,
With Freedom's flag unfurled,
Who hears the echo of that song,
As it goes down the world.
Great words he is compelled to speak,
Who understands the song;
He rises up like fifty men—
Fifty good men and strong.
A stanza for each century!
Now, heed it, all who can,
Who hears it, he, and only he,
Is the elected man.
...*...*...*...*
The frost upon the window pane
Makes crystal pictures in the night;
The Earth, old mother, wears again
Her garment of the shining white.
We fly across the frozen snow
With bounding blood that will not pause.
Oh Heaven! we are far below—
Oh Earth! above thee, with thy laws.
The happy horses toss their bells;
The sleigh goes on into the far
And far away. (A whisper tells
Of flight to where the angels are.)
Glide forward. As a star that slips
Through space, we know a large desire;
And though our steeds are urged by whips,
We haste as they were urged by fire.
Dash forward, Let us know no rest—
But on, and on, and ever on,
Until the palace of the West
We enter, with the sinking sun.
And forward still, until the East
Releases the aspiring day;
And forward till the hours have ceased,
Oh Earth! now art thou far away.
...*...*...*...*
The mountains truly have a glorious roughness;
I do not hear the pyramids are smooth;
The ocean grandly foams into abruptness;
Does God peal thunder down a well-oiled groove?
Thou, with a poet's roughness, friend, would'st quarrel;
Staggering o'er the ridges of ploughed speech,
You move uneasily. Well, the apparel
Of verse is trivial. Try the sense to reach.