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Archibald Lampman - To The Prophetic Soul
Work rating: Low

What are these bustlers at the gate
   Of now or yesterday,
 These playthings in the hand of Fate,
   That pass, and point no way;

 These clinging bubbles whose mock fires
   For ever dance and gleam,
 Vain foam that gathers and expires
   Upon the world`s dark stream;

 These gropers betwixt right and wrong,
   That seek an unknown goal,
 Most ignorant, when they seem most strong;
   What are they, then, O Soul,

 That thou shouldst covet overmuch
   A tenderer range of heart,
 And yet at every dreamed-of touch
   So tremulously start?

 Thou with that hatred ever new
   Of the world`s base control,
 That vision of the large and true,
   That quickness of the soul;

 Nay, for they are not of thy kind,
   But in a rarer clay
 God dowered thee with an alien mind;
   Thou canst not be as they.

 Be strong therefore; resume thy load,
   And forward stone by stone
 Go singing, though the glorious road
   Thou travellest alone.
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