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 | The poetical works of Edward Rowland Sill |  |
Here
Upon a coast whose calmer-blossoming surf
Beats not with such an iron clang as theirs,
We plant the Newer England; this our word,
That man is no mere spider-like machine
To spin out webs of railroads after him
In all earth's corners, nor a crafty brain
Made to knit cunning nets of politics
Or sharpen down to insignificance
On the grinding wheels of business, but a Soul,
That travelling higher worlds in upper light
Dips down through bodily contact into this;
As a hand trails over a boat's side through the waves,
And seems to the sea-creatures, eyed alone
For their own element, a thing of the sea.
Whether he wear the purple or the serge,
Whether he worship under frescoed pomp
Or bare-hewn rafters, it is still the man,
The individual spirit, something far
Beyond earth's chemistry, to whom all else
Are only foot-lights, scene, accessory,
Or nothing—or a farce, a mockery.
Upon a coast whose calmer-blossoming surf
Beats not with such an iron clang as theirs,
54
That man is no mere spider-like machine
To spin out webs of railroads after him
In all earth's corners, nor a crafty brain
Made to knit cunning nets of politics
Or sharpen down to insignificance
On the grinding wheels of business, but a Soul,
That travelling higher worlds in upper light
Dips down through bodily contact into this;
As a hand trails over a boat's side through the waves,
And seems to the sea-creatures, eyed alone
For their own element, a thing of the sea.
Whether he wear the purple or the serge,
Whether he worship under frescoed pomp
Or bare-hewn rafters, it is still the man,
The individual spirit, something far
Beyond earth's chemistry, to whom all else
Are only foot-lights, scene, accessory,
Or nothing—or a farce, a mockery.
| The poetical works of Edward Rowland Sill | |