Page:The Atlantic Monthly Volume 1.djvu/844

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836 The Hundred Days. [May, I dreamed!—The roar, the tramp, the burdened air Pour round their sharp and subtle mockery. Here go the eager-footed men; and there The costly beggars of the world float by;— Lilies, that toil nor spin, How should they know so well the weft of sin, And hide me from them with such sudden eye?

But all the roaming crowd begins to make A whirl of humming shade;—for, since the day Is done, and there's no lower step to take, Life drops me here. Some rough, kind hand, I pray, Thrust the sad wreck aside, And shut the door on it!—a little pride, That I may not offend who pass this way.

And this is all!—Oh, thou wilt yet give heed! No soul but trusts some late redeeming care,— But walks the narrow plank with bitter speed, And, straining through the sweeping mist of air, In the great tempest-call, And greater silence deepening through it all, Refuses still, refuses to despair!

Some further end, whence thou refitt'st with aim Bewildered souls, perhaps?—Some breath in me, By thee, the purest, found devoid of blame, Fit for large teaching?—Look!—I cannot see,— I can but feel!—Far off, Life seethes and frets,—and from its shame and scoff I take my broken crystal up to thee.

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