Why is the mud of humanity spurned
E'en from the tread of the passer-by?
Why is the look of pity turned
From the bare feet and the downcast eye?
There is virtue yet to spring
From this poor trodden thing;
There are germs of godlike power
In the trials of this hour;
But so it is, and hath ever been:
The man of the future is e'er unseen.