The gods that dwell within the calm
Where winds have never lifted wings,
Hear, as they bend, a moaning psalm
From lips of men and human things.
It bears the burden of despair,
That finds an ample voice in songs,
The high gods hear it in that air,
And know it speaks a thousand wrongs.
It wails—'Our life is far too brief,
Grant us a little longer day;
Or make us equal with the leaf,
It comes again, we pass away.
'There is so much for us to know—
The wider bounds of growing powers;
The infant harvests that we sow
Are reaped by other hands than ours.
'So much to do, so much to feel,
With men still seeking higher goals,
Who spin their spider webs of steel
To clutch this planet as it rolls;
'Who slowly move amid our fears
At all the wild results we see,
Who work within the toiling years
And shape the miracles to be.
'So much to do for all our kind,
To widen love, to lighten pain,
To move the heart, to shape the mind,
And stand upon a nobler plane.
'Let us but see the end of all,
When brain and thought have had their way,
Let not the shadows on us fall—
Grant us a little longer day.'
The gods that dwell without our reach,
They bend and listen all the while;
They answer not—the lips of each
Have scorn that mingles with their smile.