What man would live coffined with brick and

stone, Imprisoned from the influences of air, And cramped with selfish land-marks every

where, When all before him stretches, furrowless and lone,

The unmapped prairie none can fence or own? What man would read and read the selfsame

faces, And, like the marbles which the windmill

grinds, Rub smooth forever with the same smooth

minds, This year retracing last year's, every year's, dull

traces, When there are woods and un-man-stifled

places ?

What man o'er one old thought would pore and

Shut like a book between its covers thin

For every fool to leave his dog's-ears in,
When solitude is his, and God for evermore,

Just for the opening of a paltry door ?

What man would watch life's


element Creep Letheward forever, when he might Down some great river drift beyond men's

sight, To where the undethroned forest's royal tent

Broods with its hush o'er half a continent ?

What man with men would push and altercate,

Piecing out crooked means for crooked ends,
When he can have the skies and woods for

friends, Snatch back the rudder of his undismantled fate,

And in himself be ruler, church, and state ?

Cast leaves and feathers rot in last year's nest, The winged brood, flown thence, new dwell

ings plan; The serf of his own Past is not a man ; To change and change is life, to move and never

rest ;Not what we are, but what we hope, is best.

The wild, .free woods make no man halt or

Cities rob men of eyes and hands and feet,

Patching one whole of many incomplete ;
The general preys upon the individual mind,

And each alone is helpless as the wind.

Each man is some man's servant; every soul

Is by some other's presence quite discrowned;
Each owes the next through all the imperfect

round, Yet not with mutual help; each man is his own

goal, And the whole earth must stop to pay his toll.


Here, life the undiminished man demands;
New faculties stretch out to meet

wants; What Nature asks, that Nature also grants; Here man is lord, not drudge, of eyes and feet and

hands, And to his life is knit with hourly bands.

Come out, then, from the old thoughts and old

ways, Before you harden to a crystal cold Which the new life can shatter, but not

mould ; Freedom for you still waits, still, looking backward,

stays, But widens still the irretrievable space.


OF all the myriad moods of mind

That through the soul come thronging, Which one was e'er so dear, so kind,

So beautiful as Longing ?
The thing we long for, that we are

For one transcendent moment,
Before the Present poor and bare

Can make its sneering comment.

Still, through our paltry stir and strife,

Glows down the wished Ideal,
And Longing moulds in clay what Life

Carves in the marble Real;
To let the new life in, we know,

Desire must ope the portal ; Perhaps the longing to be so

Helps make the soul immortal. Longing is God's fresh heavenward will

With our poor earthward striving; We quench it that we may be still

Content with merely living;
But, would we learn that heart's full scope

Which we are hourly wronging,
Our lives must climb from hope to hope

And realize our longing.
Ah ! let us hope that to our praise

Good God not only reckons
The moments when we tread his ways,

But when the spirit beckons,

That some slight good is also wrought

Beyond self-satisfaction, When we are simply good in thought,

Howe'er we fail in action.

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