TILL the mist passes, and ye can descry
Why hearts for ages loved the love-shed blood
Of a pure Christ, and praised a humble God,
Hush, ye song-gifted! lest ye sing a lie.

Till the din ceases, and again ye hear
Echo in your own soul, each one of you,
Of all that won men to be sad and true,
Wait; that your note through waiting may grow clear.

Swift blisses of a wanton, will-less hour,--
Soft hair, youth's happy lips, love's laughter low,
Pall if ye praise nought else; perennial glow
Streams from no age that hymns but half its power.

Men of the morrow! ye of kindliest scan!
Chaunt still most sweetly what most strength may save,
Find song for what is difficult and brave,--
For what begins not lowlier than at man.

But ever in its great simplicity
Supposes all the powers of his blood,
His strange self-ordering sense of brotherhood,
And all the subtle joys of sympathy.

Fine flavours of discriminated good
Learnt from the tasting of the knowledge-tree,
Things that it takes the whole of man to be,
And poets' travail to make understood.

From out the strife of mad, conflicting needs
So shall your music strike a harmony,
And hold aloft a meaning steadfastly
Above the ruin-crash of falling creeds.

Be true to man, our poets! Ay, be true
To both the moods of this twain-natured thing;--
His breath of self sing if ye will, but sing
Also the utmost man that lives in you.