Outworld.

The sun was shining on the busy earth,
All men and things were moving on their way-
The old, old way which we call life. The soul
Shrank from the giant grasp of Space and Time.
Yet for it was her dreamy hour, half yielded
To the omnipotent delusion—and looked out
On the broad glare of things, and felt itself
Dwindling before the Universe. Then came unto the Bard
Another spirit with another voice,
And sang:
Said he that all but seems?
Said he, the world is void and lonely,
A strange vast crowd of dreams
Coming to thee only?
And that thy feeble soul
Hath such a strong control
O’er sovereign Space and sovereign Time
And all their train sublime?
Said he, thou art the Eye
Reflecting all that is—
The Ear that hears while it creates
All sounds and harmonies—
The central sense that bides amid
All shows, and turns them to realities?
Listen, mortal, while the sound
Of this life intense is flowing!
Dost thou find all things around
Go as thou art going?
Dost thou dream that thou art free,
Making, destroying all that thou dost see,
In the unfettered might of thy soul’s liberty?
Lo, an atom troubles thee,
One bodily fibre crushes thee,
One nerve tortures and maddens thee,
One drop of blood is death to thee.
Art thou but a withering leaf,
For a summer season brief
Clinging to the tree,
Till the winds of circumstance,
Whirling in their hourly dance,
Prove too much for thee?
Art thou but a speck, a mote
In the system universal?
Art thou but a passing note
Woven in the great Rehearsal?
Canst thou roll back the tide of Thought
And unmake the creed of the age,
And unteach the wisdom taught
By the prophet and the sage?
Art thou but a shadow
Chasing o’er a meadow?
The great world goes on
Spite of thy dreaming.
Not to thee alone
Hearts are making their moan,
And tear drops streaming,
And the mighty voice of Nature
Is thy parent, not thy creature,
Is no pupil, but thy teacher;
And the world would still move on,
Were thy soul forever flown.
For while thou dreamest on, enfolded
In Nature’s wide embrace,
All thy life is daily moulded
By her informing grace.
And time and space must reign
And rule o’er thee forever,
And the Outworld lift its chain
From off thy spirit never;
But in the dream of thy half-waking fever,
Thou shalt be mocked with gleam and show
Of truths thou pinest for and yet canst never know.

And then the Spirit fled and left the Bard
Still wondering—for he felt that voices twain
Had come from different spheres with different truths,
That seemed at war and yet agreed in one.