Alcyone

by Archibald Lampman


 

 

TO THE PROPHETIC SOUL


 

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                                 5
    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,                                                 10
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                                          15
    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;                                                   20

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,                                    25
    And forward stone by stone
Go singing, though the glorious road
    Thou travellest alone.