THE BETTER PART

H. OLIVER WISE

How maz'd and drear, amid his sticks and stones,
His color'd pebbles and his bits of glass.
That darken if a cloud above but pass.
Gropes mortal man, that thing of flesh and bones!
These have his heart, o'er these he pores and croons
An eldritch rune that shakes the bladed grass,—
Rooted like this in earth that ever has
A charm to check all impulse it disowns.

And shall we say the brown earth gave us all?
Permits our tiny growth toward the sun,
Strong to recall us to her bosom dun
When we have rip'd her juices chemical?
Nay, nay, not so, God's children still we be,
Due unto vaster motions—free, yes, free!

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